


One is a Wanderer; Two are Going Somewhere

by apathetiic



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - Fandom
Genre: 48verse if you squint, Don’t worry it’ll be resolved I’m not Satan, Drunkenness, Jack is an endearing dick, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, Pre-Batman - Freeform, Pre-Joker, Romantic Tension, Sexual Tension, Strangers to Lovers, Tagging as I go, so much sinatra it's painful
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-04-16 11:24:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 33,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14163783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apathetiic/pseuds/apathetiic
Summary: Fate introduces people at the best and worst of times.





	1. Chapter 1

The last few remembrances of winter were fading from Gotham as the short days grew longer, and the slush and grime melted from the streets. The air of Gotham was becoming a little sweeter with the suggestion of spring, delicate buds were forming on the scarce amount of trees in the city, promising growth. However, tonight, winter was still present as the air was cold and biting, and gray clouds hid the setting sun from view as Bruce Wayne exited an office building on the edge of the financial district. The air carried a sharp breeze and it had the unique smell of rain, a peculiar petrichor that hung in the air. Although, this was no discouragement to the press that was beginning to swarm around Wayne in a frenzy, eager for the blood he had spilled in the water after stepping out of the building. 

The billionaire sighed as he drew up the collars of his coat to hide himself from the intrusive cameras and the frigid wind. He silently pulled his phone from his pocket to call Alfred, who was uncharacteristically late. He blamed it on the rush hour traffic.

" _Mr. Wayne!"_ Shouted one reporter behind him, but Bruce didn’t have the time or energy to pay attention. After awhile, the constant bombardment of his public and private life had become a daily occurrence for him. Their shouts were a sort of hum that blended into Gotham's natural ambiance. 

"I really can't talk right now." He mumbled as he brought the phone to his ear, and began to jostle his way through the throng of paparazzi, trying to be as considerate as possible as he elbowed cameras away from his face.

" _Mr. Wayne, would you care to comment on the nature of your relationship with-"_ Bruce stiffened as the dial tone cut off the last bit of the sentence. He went on one date a week ago and suddenly it's Gotham's hottest story. Noting happened between them, sure it was his first date in years but that didn't make it particularly monumentous. He hadn't even seen her afterwards. It just didn't work out, yet the press kept picking at the wound. All they cared about was if Bruce Wayne, a young, handsome 20 something was dating another young, beautiful 20 something.

 "Master Bruce?" Alfred's voice said, distant in quality.

"Hey, I'm on 6th street," Bruce said into the phone as he pushed his way to the outskirts of the mob and began to swiftly walk down the street. Clouds rolled overhead, and the sky grew even more dark. "Could you pick me up just before the intersection? I'm trying to lose some of the press."

"Right away, sir. I do apologize for being tardy-" Alfred began

"It's alright," Bruce said, cutting him off before his butler began to ramble into a long, but well meaning apology.

"I'll be there soon," Alfred said.

"Thank you."

Bruce was now walking farther and farther from the stretching, gray and angular buildings of the financial district, and into one of Gotham's more rough neighborhoods. It had a ruggedly organic and chaotic feel to it, cramped bodegas stood side by side, and tattered green, red and blue awnings flapped in the biting wind. A few of Gotham's homeless population sat on street corners or in the doorways of abandoned buildings, trying to find some shelter from the quickly worsening weather. Still, the paparazzi followed Bruce persistently, and he could feel his chest tighten with anxiety at his location and the unwanted attention. 

Rain began to fall from the sky now. Thick drops that cascaded down the awnings and landed on the concrete with a  _'plop'._ What little inhabitants the street had were now retreating into the dilapidated buildings to hide from the now arriving storm. Alfred was still nowhere in sight, and the crowds of reporters began to disperse in fear of their cameras from being damaged. Bruce felt his stomach twist as he now became more alone. He kept his head down, focusing on the drops of water rolling down the dark strands of his hair and falling on to his shoes bellow. He couldn't look anywhere else, each alleyway, each trashcan and cheap neon sign was a reminder of what had happened. He was miles from Crime Alley, yet it still followed him whenever he confronted Gotham's rotting underbelly.

Now, the frenzied reporters had thinned out to a few stragglers who had decided that their equipment was more important than a blurry, distorted photo of Bruce Wayne walking from a late night business meeting. Bruce was begining to think that the presses constant presence would be more desirable than isolation.

Up above from one of the glowing windows on the street played a melancholy song that carried through the rainy sky. Bruce, now soaked to the bone with the rain water and growing more nervous by the second ducked under an awning to call Alfred once more, worrying that his butler couldn't find him in the storm. He could barley keep his hand from shaking as he pressed the call button on the glowing screen. 

"Hello, Alfred?" He said into the receiver.

"Sir I'm just at the intersection of 6th and 5th street." Alfred's voice was broken and far off.  

"O-Okay I'll be right there." Bruce's teeth chattered from the cold of the rainwater.

The song from above came to an end, and the dial tone from his phone sounded.

_click._

It was such a simple sound, the pulling back of the hammer on a gun. Calculated and precise, but it carried such weight for Bruce Wayne. This night was all too similar to the night his parents were killed. The song that had been drifting through the air reminded him of the sound of the orchestra bleeding through the brick wall that his parent's blood had splattered on. The hair on his forehead stuck there with rainwater as it had done fifteen years ago. He didn't want to look down at his shoes as he was petrified, horrified that if he looked he would see his mother's pearls strewn across the ground like fallen stars, and her pale hand stained with blood.

"Hands up, pretty boy," The voice of his attacker said, drawing Bruce out of his spiral. "And turn around,"

Slowly, he turned towards the voice, his hands shaking uncontrollably in the air, Bruce now expected to see the mottled face of Joe Chill staring at him through the rain and the dusk's gloom. The world seemed to spin around him, if only for a split second, and he felt the sudden urge to vomit out of anxiety. If he had just waited for Alfred at the office building, if he had just tolerated the intrusive flashes of the camera--

He now faced the gunman, but his eyes had shifted to his feet and remained glued there, still too afraid to look up. Still too afraid that he would meet the same end as his parents. Though some dark part of him wanted to know, if he was really repeating his family’s past, and slowly, ever so slowly as the other man stepped closer to him to reach in his coat's pocket to grab for his wallet, he looked at his attacker.

There wasn't much to see.

At first glance, the other man was very plain. Blondish hair was slick and dark with rain, pushed back to avoid his eyes. His face was obscured, his head bowed in concentration as he thumbed through the contents of Bruce's wallet with ease, the other hand held a small pistol aimed at Bruce's gut. Bruce's chest tightened as his eyes drifted over the gray metal of the chamber of the gun. The man wore a coat, not unlike Bruce's, but it seemed worn and too big for the man's skinny frame. The man's face tilted upwards as he drew Bruce's ID out of the wallet. His skin was pale, dusted with the mist of the rain. His cheeks were hollow, and his face had an angularity to it that made his appearance peculiar, but no less intriguing. Truthfully, it didn’t look like he had had a good meal in a while. His eyes were slightly sunken in, and had dark circles in under them, the color of his irises were a watery green. They never stopped moving, and never dared to meet Bruce's eye. He would seem uninteresting, unimpressive if you just caught a glance at him. But maybe it was because the man chose to stay that way.

"Bruce Wayne." He mumbled, his voice almost inaudible over the pounding rain. Whatever confidence man had when he pointed his gun at the billionaire faded quickly, the gun shifted from Bruce's chest and the man clung onto the wallet with a frightened look on his face. "God, now I'm really in for it."

Bruce was taken aback at the sudden display of vulnerability, but the gun being held loosely in the man's hand still stopped him from running. 

"Shit." The man whispered. "What do I do? What's next?" He had began to say to himself. He had thought it would be a simple mugging, cock the gun, point it and then get the cash. Why didn't he just pickpocket the guy? He was better at that anyway, but no, he had to be cocky and he had to put himself on the line and look what happened. 'Idiot' he thought to himself. 'I mugged the richest guy in the city, Gotham's prince, and now the GCPD and my boss, not to mention all of Wayne's adoring fans now are going to want my head on a pike staff for it.'  

Wayne had to disappear, and fast, the man decided. Any moment a cop could roll around the corner or that butler that had been following Wayne around since he was a kid would start to suspect something was up. He pocketed the wallet and the ID card.

"Listen," He said as he now gripped the gun with two hands. Wayne froze up, his eyes widening, unable to separate from the barrel of the pistol, all the color had been leeched from his face giving him a ghastly quality. The man tried to make his tone sound consoling. "I really hate to do this, you know." He pointed the gun at Bruce's chest. How much would he have to pay to make the body disappear? Hopefully the contents of Wayne's wallet would cover the cost.

"You don't have to shoot me," Bruce said suddenly, if not meekly. "I have money, I can give you that or- or whatever you like, just please don't shoot me." The man, taken aback by Wayne's sudden desperation, lowered the pistol. All he had been fed from the moment Wayne's name had crossed the paper that he was the most powerful, most influential and confident person in Gotham. But people did change if you pointed a gun at them. The most stalwart became desperate, and the once confident became helpless. 

The man paused. 

"I need a drink," He said helplessly as he let the gun fall at his side. 

"Sure, sure!" Bruce said, his voice peaking with relief once the gun fell. 

"But-" The man said. "I need to make sure you don't tell the police, or- or that butler or whoever." The man pointed at Bruce, with enough menace to make him listen. "So, you're coming with me." 

What little relief Bruce had held onto fell through his fingers like sand as the other man grabbed his arm and pulled him into the alleyway.

"What the hell-" Bruce said angrily as he wrenched the arm of his coat from the other man's grasp. "You mug me, then you decide to shoot me, then we're running off through an alleyway?" He said, as he paced in the dark side street, trying to avoid the grey water of the puddles and the trash scattered generously on the concrete. 

"Yeah, well-" The man shrugged, the pistol moving with him. A reminder for Bruce to watch his mouth. "I'm making it up as I go."

His words didn't have a particularly soothing affect on Bruce, who was turning to run in the opposite direction.

The man raised his gun again- "Wait!" 

Wayne stopped in his tracks.

"I can either shoot you, or we can have a drink and try to forget about this whole thing," He said, opening his palms to Bruce.

Bruce stiffened for a second, and reluctantly made his way back towards the man.

"If it's any consolation, my name's Jack." Jack offered, trying to be friendly towards Bruce, even if it was at the worst of times.

They began to walk down the alleyway.

"How do I know that's your real name," Bruce said, his tone flat but he couldn't hide the shred of curiosity in his voice.

"You don't," Jack said as he stopped at a weathered door near the end of the alleyway, bowing his head to give a mocking smile.

Bruce ground his teeth silently in quiet anger and humiliation as he watched the other man, Jack, knock on the door.

"Now, I'd really like to get out of this rain, billionaire boy. So if you wouldn't mind following me one more time--" Jack said as the door opened, and light spilled out into the rainy alleyway.

Bruce didn't offer an answer as he roughly shoved his way past Jack and into the doorway, it wasn't like he had any other choice, anyway. "Don't call me that--" Bruce hissed.

The world beyond the door was vastly different than the quiet, dark alleyway Jack had led him to. There wasn't a torrential downpour past the door, and the sky seemed bright and blue in this new place. Bruce was blinded by the sudden assault of neon light before him.  He didn’t have time to realize that the sky was tarps, hiding this place from view and from the elements. It was crowded, so suffocatingly full with people that Bruce never really stopped moving, because the swarm of brightly colored people carried him through whenever he tried to stop. It was a miracle that Jack managed to stay so near to him in the square. Neon lights shone from hollowed out buildings above, bathing the crowd in pink, green and blue swatches. 'Drugs, Drinks, Girls' the signs screamed into the ever moving mass of people, beckoning the men and women to enter whatever hollowed out place in the square that had became a shop. Music poured out of every crack and wall, from windows and doorways, to the seedy hole in the wall clubs. If Bruce looked above and into the windows, he could see people leaning on their windowsills, drinking a beer, hanging up their laundry and whatever went on behind the numerous closed blinds in this miniature city. Every inch of the place was alive. So, this was where Gotham's most poor and destitute spent their evenings. 

 "Keep moving," Jack said to Bruce as he shoved him through the crowd, one hand on the pistol now concealed in his pocket. "We don't want you getting mugged a second time." 

 The crowd had thinned a little once the two had made it across the pavilion and onto a side street. A red neon sign hung crookedly off a painted brick building, in the shape of the ace of hearts. A doorway sat underneath, and green paint was peeling off of it's old wood.

"There," Jack said, as he led Bruce to the doorway.

Bruce's hand closed around the brass doorknob, but he was stopped by Jack's pale hand.

"Wait, just a moment." Jack's thin hands grabbed onto Bruce's shoulders and pushed him onto the brick wall of the door way. Bruce scowled at the man's sudden closeness as Jack played with the collar of his coat.

"You need to stop looking so..." He searched for the word. "Aristocratic, bourgeoisie, rich?" 

Bruce tilted his head to the side, still not comfortable as he could see the outline of the pistol in Jack's coat pocket, still in shock of the events that were currently unfolding. He was grateful he hadn't had a full blown panic attack by now. 

"I'll get to the point. Lose the Rolex and keep your coat on-"

"I'm soaked to the bone i'd like to think I'll get to take it off-" Bruce retorted in a matter of fact voice.

Jack's lip twitched as he continued. "too bad about that perfume, cologne, whatever." Jack's face came close to Bruce's neck as he smelled the earthy tones of sandalwood and musk. Bruce tensed and pushed Jack away from him. Whatever he was up to, Bruce didn't like it. 

"Easy," The man said, showing his palms to Bruce. "I’m just trying to help you to blend in," he pointed at Bruce and raised an eyebrow "Some people here aren’t as generous and empathetic as I am." He gave a grin, and ran a hand through his soaked hair.

There it was. The thing that was so unsettling about Jack. His smile. His pale skin stretched around his mouth, as if it was restricting. The man's smile was wide and so full of emotion it seemed fake. His teeth were straight and white, but his grin was crooked giving him a cheshire quality. The smile had a unique magnetism, and repulsion to it. It cast angular shadows across Jack's already pointed face and in the red lighting of the neon sign, he looked frightening for a moment, much unlike the plain man before. Bruce became more uncertain of Jack’s character. He felt the sudden urge to bolt again, Alfred couldn't be far from here. He could still escape, and try to forget about the mugging and the strange man with the strange, magnetic, repulsive smile. 

The door to the bar opened, and with a boyish bow, Jack ushered Bruce into the space. 

Bruce was beginning to realize that wherever they went in this place it was going to be crowded. Overhead, industrial lights swung up above, moving with the vibrations of heavy and unintelligible music coming from speakers somewhere in the pub. Some of the lights were red in color, and as they swung they cast crimson pools over the people sitting at the tables and large leather boots dotting the narrow place. Eyes immediately fell on Bruce and Jack in their rain soaked clothes and everyman haircuts, every other person in the place seemed to be adorned in piercings and clothes that reminded Bruce of an avant-garde gallery. He had never really felt out of place in Gotham before, but he could tell that he was not welcome here. 

Jack motioned towards the bartender, nestled on the wall of the pub. They took a seat at the stools lining the bar, and Bruce rested an arm on the black lacquered wood to stop himself before fell over from shock. Bruce’s eyes darted around the place, his stomach uncomfortable and queasy.  

“Wow.” Jack tried to say over the deafening music. “I think you would’ve been better off if I shot you!” 

Bruce was beginning to think that was true. 

"Where even am I?" Bruce said anxiously as he looked over Jack's shoulder to stare out of the dark windows to stare at the bustling square.

"Gotham's own Skid Row," Jack said as the bartender brought over two drinks. 

"Were those tarps, up above?" He questioned.  

"Keeps the rain out, and the police away, but quit asking questions." Jack took the shots from the bar, and pushed one into Bruce's hand. "This place isn't exactly on the GCPDs radar." 

He scoffed as he looked into the shot glass, the amber liquid reflecting the cherry lighting into his eyes. "How do I know this isn't poisoned?"

"It's whiskey," Jack said before downing the shot. "Isn't that what the upper class of Gotham drink?" 

"No," Bruce said before downing his own glass. "It's not." He let out a short cough at the burning sensation that the alcohol left in his throat, although, it did have a cinnamon aftertaste to it that warmed his bones after the chilling rain. 

"What do you like then?" Jack said as he leaned a little bit closer, instinctively Bruce leaned away in his chair. 

"I don't drink much," He said, truthfully. 

"Then drink some more!" Jack said as he flagged down the bartender for a second round.

Jack's sudden friendliness and ease of mind was unsettling to Bruce. He was suspiciously cheerful, much unlike the shadowed man in the alleyway who seemed ready to do anything for some extra cash, or the man outside of the bar with the sinister smile. Now here he sat, ordering shots of whiskey, and Bruce knew it was one of the more expensive poisons out there. Whatever situation he was in, he was suspicious. Perhaps this was Jack's home, and that was the reason why he felt so comfortable.

"I'm still not convinced you'll let me go," Bruce said after the bartender left to serve some eager customers at the other end of the bar.

"I'm still not convinced you'll keep quiet." Jack said as he tilted his head backwards to throw a second shot down his throat. "Guess we're at a standstill."  

Bruce didn't answer, Jack's character from what little taste he had had of it, was fuzzy and questionable. He couldn't make any assumptions, and he didn't want to end up in a back alley, bleeding from a gun wound to the gut. His stomach convulsed at the thought, the memory of the pistol burning a Ballester-Molina semi-automatic shape in his head. 

"You don't trust me," said the other man with a mocking pout, drawing out his lower lip in a clownish fashion. "I'm hurt, Bruce, I really thought we had something special going for us." He looked at Bruce with a sad look in his eyes that wasn’t too convincing.

"What do you do," Bruce asked suddenly. "Other than mug people." His tone was flat if not inconsiderate, Jack had held him at gunpoint after all. Bruce wasn’t going to treat him like the guest of honor at the Wayne charity ball. 

Jack ran his finger across the lip of the shot glass. It couldn't hurt to open up a little, his plan was to get Wayne so drunk that he thought all of this was a bad dream, so what if he let a few personal details slip. Besides, the guy had a sort of awkward charm to him in person, and a biting cynicism that was well appreciated on Jack's part. Tabloids had always painted him as a womanizer with a trail of broken hearts behind him, a one dimensional man with nothing but his fortune going for him. He felt very... human in person. Besides, this wasn't an opportunity many Gothamites had, sitting in a shady pub and chatting about who knows what with Bruce Wayne.

 "I'm a renaissance man if you will," He said, his voice snobbish. "I do it all, acting, singing, comedy." 

Bruce decided that he didn't like Jack, or rather, he didn't like his voice. Whenever he opened his mouth he expected his tongue to be sitting there, coated in silver. He was intriguing, there was no doubt about it, but his persuasion seemed to come from a place of ego. The quality of his voice was nasally and had a certain accent that the less affluent members of Gotham had adopted. His ordinary appearance was misleading, and as he shifted back in his seat Bruce got the impression that the over sized coat and the tailored suit underneath wasn't his normal attire. Everything about Jack screamed 'liar' and he was certainly the kind of liar that loved to put on a show to any one who happened to listen. 

"Fine," he said as he raised a hand. His voice lost some of it's showmanship.  "I play piano at a jazz club, I had lessons when I was a kid, so I'm not half bad. I want to be a comedian, but it's hard enough trying to make ends meet. So i'll stick to what I'm good at, piano and muggings," Jack said, cutting out significant portions of his life.  

"Does everyone here commit crimes as a side job?" Bruce said as he looked around the bar. A group of men in dark coats sat huddled around a booth, and shot him a dirty look when he let his eyes linger for too long. At another table, Bruce caught a glance of a small bag being wordlessly passed between two people. Even the bartender seemed to be in on it, and before she could bring him and Jack more drinks, he saw her pocket a 50 dollar bill as a weak looking man was dragged out into the street by two strangers. 

"More or less," Jack said, his tone stately. "But what else are you supposed to do?"

Bruce was silent as the drinks settled before them, knowing that he would never be able to understand Jack's situation. Privilege had put a blindfold over his eyes the moment he was given the name Wayne. 

"Drink?" He proposed as he nudged the drink towards Jack, shoving the panic down with more alcohol. 

Jack gave a lopsided smile, and accepted the concoction.

They gave a silent toast, and Bruce let the liquid roll down his throat, forgetting about the gun and his wallet resting comfortably in Jack's pocket, for now. 

===

Bruce at the ripe age of twenty-two, had just got drunk for the first time, and the situation was less than desirable, being stuck in a dangerous, foreign place with a man he had met only hours before who had originally planned to shoot him and take his money. 

"Y-you know Wayne," Jack mumbled into Bruce's coat, clutching to the billionaire like a lost child as they stumbled out into Skid Row's plaza. He gave a wheezing laugh that led nowhere. 

"What?" Bruce chuckled, his voice sounded disconnected from his head.

The neon lights of Skid Row were swirling around the pair, the reds and greens and magentas taking on a impressionist style as the two man shuffled through the back alley. 

 "I should hate, you, you know that?" Jack rambled as the two were carried off into the plaza's crowd, clinging to each other madly. "You're everything I'm- that I'm not."

Bruce couldn't help but let out an inebriated laugh at Jack's words.

"M-money, and, an' Power, what ever the hell that is and-" 

"Girls?" Bruce interjected.

"A butler!" 

The pair keeled over in laughter, leaning on each other for balance, the ever moving crowd parted for the two men, it had seen enough drunken idiots in it's time.

"And oh my god!" Jack said, his voice swelling. "I'd kill to look like that," Jack patted Bruce's chest.

"Literally?"

"Literally." Jack gave a languid smile that even when drunk, still possessed charm.

Bruce paused.

"Are you coming on to me? 'Cause it feels like you're coming on to me,"  He said suddenly. 

"What?" Jack guffawed as they stopped in the middle of the crowd. "Nope. No- I'm straight, yep. That's the word- a full blown homo- hetero, i mean." 

Wayne looked at him dumbfounded.

"Unless you're into it then I'm into it." Jack shrugged, swaying slightly. 

"I need to call Alfred," Bruce said, trying to regain some semblance of sobriety.

"Who the hell is Alfred?" Jack said, a touch of jealousy in his voice. 

Bruce wasn't listening as he fumbled for his phone in his pocket, his hands shaking as he tried to open the device. His breath shortened as his intoxicated brain tried to form a rational thought about his butler. What had Alfred done when he didn't show up, less than a block away from the car. Did he spend an hour in a torrential downpour looking for Bruce in one of Gotham's dangerous neighborhoods. Bruce was drunk out of his mind but he couldn't help but fear for Alfred. Panic settled in as he brought the phone to his ear, no one answered. Bruce knotted a hand in his hair as he looked around frantically, unsure of what to do, he was here, trapped and drunk with a man who had tried to kill him.

"I'm going to vomit," He said as he tripped over his own feet to lean downwards, the motion of the crowd around him didn't help his already unstable stomach.

Jack's eyes widened in shock at Bruce's sudden change of demeanor, his drunken thoughts unable to comprehend the situation. He stumbled towards Wayne as he leaned over, and he crossed his fingers that he wouldn't vomit. 

"C'mon-" Jack said as he patted Wayne's back. "It's fine-- you can find this Alfred guy--"

"No." Bruce cut Jack off, his brain running at a mile a minuet fueled by panic and anxiety. "You don't understand, I'm drunk--" Bruce stood up ad pointed at himself. "Can't you see I'm slurring my words," He said childishly, exaggerating his voice. "and Alfred can't find me, and you tried to rob me and I'm going to end up here, dead." Bruce shuddered, not used to his sudden out burst of words. Whenever he had a panic attack, he was silent.

"You need to slow down--" Jack whispered, his voice barley being heard over the crowd. "People are looking." It was true. The pair was getting a healthy amount of glances and wandering eyes, and Jack was too smart to know that they didn't want any necessary attention on them. "You'll be a-okay--"

Far up above, the sound of raindrops pounding against the thick tarps hiding Skid Row from view was dying out, and being replaced with the sound of wind beating against the fabric, trying to muscle it's way in. Lights appeared from up above that could blend into the neon signs below, in the colors of red and blue, sirens sounded, and a GCPD issued helicopter appeared in the air as the tarps were wrenched away. The sky had been torn open, rain was now falling into the dry plaza, and Skid Row was exposed in all of it's sinful glory. 

People scattered immediately, fleeing like bugs that had been exposed to sunlight after living in the filth and dark for so long. Bruce was nearly trampled by the crowd as they tried to make their escape. He looked towards Jack, who's watery green eyes were like saucers. Bruce knew what was going to happen before Jack turned on his heel to run into the crowd. He should have known, men like Jack only cared about their own pursuit in the end. He could only watch as Jack's blondish hair and tan coat disappeared into the mass exodus of people. 

At least he knew the police were on his side.

Or so he thought, until his arms were jostled behind his back and secured into place by an uncomfortable set of zip ties.

Bruce's breath hitched in his throat, the uncomfortable position not helping his nerves one bit.

"I'm going to pass out" He slurred to himself as his senses were engulfed in another wave of panic.

"Poor guy," said a voice behind him."He's drunk out of his mind. I even feel a little bit sorry."

He could barley hear the person, Skid Row was so stimulating, every gaudy neon sign burned into his brain and made his head pound, the sounds of helicopters, sirens and now gunshots barreled into his brain. He was completely and utterly overwhelmed and he prayed that he would black out and this would be all over in an instant. 

"You idiots!" Another voice shouted. "That's Wayne."

Bruce's anxious spiral came to a halt.

"Christ... You think after we get increased funding from none other than you, they'd be able to recognize Bruce Wayne by now." He heard close to his ear as the tension on his wrists was released. Bruce felt hands on his shoulders as he was lifted from his position on the ground.

"Now, we've got a lot of press, Mr. Wayne," said James Gordon. "I tried my best to keep them out but you know how it is-- pull up your coat, let's get out of here." Bruce gave a dumbfounded look at Gordon before shrugging his coat off his shoulders to cover his face.

His vision swam as Gordon guided him through the quickly growing mass of reporters, cameras flashed as Bruce kept his head down and tried not to trip over his own feet. Lieutenant Gordon had always been a popular guest at the Wayne charity ball, even if he did keep to himself. Bruce continually funded any task force the man had in mind, but he had only met him on a few occasions. He seemed much more well adjusted in the line of fire than on a podium in front of Gotham's most rich and powerful. 

Bruce, although he was drunk, still had a semblance of what the situation meant. Bruce Wayne, found inebriated in a secret criminal city. He dreaded seeing he headlines tomorrow morning.

Soon enough, Bruce had made it out of the suffocating city and away from the press. Rain was still falling from the sky, but it had died down into a drizzle. Bruce shuffled along slowly out of embarrassment, and adverted his eyes when he saw Alfred standing in front of a black town car with an umbrella held in his hand. His suit was dry and he looked exhausted, his head turned towards Bruce as he saw him and Gordon coming down the street.

"Master Bruce!" Alfred said, relief clear in his voice.

"He's alright, not a scratch on him," Gordon said as he handed Bruce off to his butler.

"No--" Bruce interjected before Alfred could open the car's door and whisk him back to Wayne manor. "I am  _really_ drunk."

Gordon's upper lip twitched into what looked like a smile as he looked at Alfred.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," the butler said primly. "If there's anything we can do to apologize,"

"We owe the Wayne foundation enough already," Gordon said with a slight smile. 

"Goodnight, then," Alfred said as he nudged Bruce's arm into the car, "We better get going before the press find him again."

Gordon nodded as he watched Alfred climb into the drivers seat. The dark town car rolled down the street, water coming up behind it's wheels, it turned a corner and then disappeared.

===

Bruce sat in the backseat of the town car, his coat laid on the floor soaked and smelling of alcohol. The car was warm, and his hair was begging to dry. Alfred hadn't offered him anything but a few disappointing looks disguised as concern.  Bruce sat there, his chin set on his hand as he stared out of the window through the drops of rain to the streets of the city. They were barley a few blocks away from Skid Row, and he could see groups of colorful people trying to sneak and bribe the police officers to get past the barricades. He sorted through the crowd, hoping to catch a glance of Jack. Not that he wanted him to make it out safely (he did), but he was curious to see if the man could charm his way past the police officers even when drunk.

He saw no sign of Jack as they exited the neighborhood.

"Bruce..." He heard Alfred say from the front seat. It was a rare occurrence when Alfred referred to him as Bruce without the prefix of 'Master' Bruce tensed in his seat as he tried to make eye contact with his butler through the rear view mirror. "What happened?"

"I was mugged," He said as they passed over the looming steel bridge that separated Wayne manor from the rest of the city, from here as they passed over the arch, he could just barley see the bright glow of neon lights on the horizon. He took a breath inwards, unworried about the press and his missing wallet and he thought of the man with the crooked smile and the watery green eyes who he decided, in that moment, he hated. "and I met someone."  


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It should be taken into account that my Bruce is still fairly young, he's around twenty-two, and has not yet developed the playboy persona.

Golden rays of light spilled into an airy, spacious bedroom, and onto the white linen sheets of Bruce Wayne's bed. The light shone through the ivy coating tall windows that stretched upwards to meet the ceiling. It had bloomed during a warm spell in Gotham, which had been forgotten by the bitter rain the night before. Bruce shifted in bed as the warm glow of the light hit his closed eyes, and he drew further under the covers to hide from it's glare. Gingerly, he opened his eyes, now aware of the pounding in his head. The world beneath the sheets gave off a soft yellow luster, and he could see now that he was dressed in a light blue pair of pajamas. He had no recollection of the night before, and his morning was relatively peaceful.

Until he tried to get out of bed. 

His head was heavy, resting on his shoulders, and he could feel his eyes droop with exhaustion. It was nearly noon, he realized as he looked at the simple digital clock sitting on a dark mahogany bed stand, crisscrossed with rays of golden sunlight. Bruce slowly sat up in bed, and brought his hands to his eyes as he tried to rub the fatigue and pain away, the warm light in the room was too much to bear for his eyes.

There was a soft knock at the door.

"Come in," Bruce said, a bit too loudly. The sound of his voice made his ears ring.

Alfred entered the room, breakfast already in hand. 

On the silver platter that glittered in the smooth morning dazzle sat toast, buttered to perfection, two poached eggs nestled between a generous heaping of hash brows, their yolks a bright and runny orange. Strawberries, swelling with juice sat arranged in the corner of a plate with an assortment of fresh fruits. Bruce's stomach suddenly felt very empty as Alfred sat the tray of food on his lap.

"What's the occasion?" He said, more quiet this time as he picked up a fork to dig into his eggs. "You never let me eat in bed."

His butler crossed the room to open the tall french windows to let in the cool spring air, the breeze that entered the room smelled of earth and sweet dew. Alfred gave a short sigh as he turned to Bruce. 

"Sir, you have a hangover--" Bruce set down his fork, his carnivorous appetite now explained. "Thank god you barley remember anything, now I recommend you eat your breakfast, even though it's already lunch time, and avoid the news." He raised an eyebrow at Bruce before exiting the bedroom, leaving Bruce to his breakfast and the sound of bird song now erupting from the window. 

Bruce didn't have the time to respond before the door shut. Hungover? That rarely happened, if at all. He would usually have a few sips of a Merlot and then retire. What could warrant the nagging headache and the biting pain--

Then he remembered, the gun inches away from his heart, Jack's lopsided smile, the amorphous crowd shifting around him in Skid Row, and the the bright neon lights bathing the place in a technicolor drizzle. He remembered the burning alcohol and the drinks after that and how he had overshared and joked and laughed with the man who had tried to kill him, and still hadn't given his wallet back. He had a general idea of the night before, but it was still foggy in some places. 

Bruce's stomach lurched as he remembered the missing wallet, his eyes fell on the bed stand hoping the wallet was there and that night was just a distant dream that he would forget, but the table was empty except for the clock, it's blinking red numbers flashing at him expectantly. He had to find that wallet, all of his credit cards, his drivers license sat in it. He could replace the cards, but Gotham's DMV was a nightmare, and it was the one place that his name wouldn't give him any special privileges, somehow, it wasn't ridden with corruption.  

Bruce carefully moved the tray off of his lap and onto the bed. The pain in his head was searing as black dots swam in front of his vision as he pushed himself out of the warm blankets to stand. He eyed the dark, crumpled suit that sat at the foot of his bed, and retrieved his phone from the pocket of the wrinkled suit. With the touch of a finger, the screen opened. Bruce sighed, hoping for the best as he opened his bank account. 

Luckily, he was still a billionaire, and Jack hadn't used his money to fly off to Mexico or Canada to avoid the police. 

For good measure, Bruce still froze the cards. 

He still needed his wallet back, though, and he didn't have the faintest idea of where to find Jack. He seemed like the type of person to keep his whereabouts unknown, and in Gotham it was easy to get lost or forgotten. Aimlessly, Bruce scrolled through his phone, he could go back to Skid Row, but the police were probably still combing over the place, and Jack wouldn't want to be within a mile of it. His head tilted upwards to look at the television mounted on the wall, and saw his ragged appearance reflected before him in the television's black mirror. He hadn't checked the news, maybe the police caught Jack, he could get his wallet back, tell his story to Gordon and never see Jack again. 

Bruce picked up the remote sitting on a small table underneath the flat screen, and the television came to life.

Skid Row was a lot bigger than it had appeared, the main plaza area was now exposed, the tarps hiding it had been ripped away. Side streets jutted off of the main plaza, leading to other pockets of open air. The aerial shot of the place showcased everything for Gotham. It was uncharacteristically empty, a few officers roamed around the open plaza, stopping occasionally to talk to a colleague or peer into the now dark buildings. The neon lights were still lit, and they glistened with drops of rain as the scene shifted to a reporter on the ground.

 _"Last night, billionaire Bruce Wayne went missing. Police were able to track his location to this place, but then encountered the criminal underworld of Gotham."_ That was a good way to put it.  _"There were shootouts between the inhabitants of this Skid Row and the GCPD, but no one was harmed. Right now, the police are doing a full sweep of Skid Row, two drug lords were arrested, and multiple owners of brothels are now behind bars."_

Mug shots appeared on screen, but Jack wasn't among them.

 _"Now, that begs the question"_ The reporter continued, as she walked towards one of the side streets. Through the purple and red fog of last night's escapades, Bruce recognized the neon sign of the ace of arts perched on the side of a dilapidated brick building. He sucked in air through his teeth, preparing for whatever slander the press was going to associate him with.  _"What was Bruce Wayne doing in a place like this?"_

The screen cut to new footage, a shaky and held camera was being pointed into the crowd of Skid Row. "Is that Bruce Wayne?" The person hidden behind the phone said.

Bruce saw himself in the frame, but only from the back, his arm was slung around the shoulder of a skinnier, blonde man.  _Jack._ Even through the loudness of the crowd, he could still hear his inebriated laughter and Jack's more high pitched snicker. 

 _"Authorities believe the man seen in the video may have a connection to the events surrounding Wayne, the GCPD does not have any information regarding the man's whereabouts."_ So Jack had escaped. Bruce would have to do this on his own. His thumb hovered over the off button on the remote, but before the screen could go blank once more,

 _"It is also rumored that Wayne was put under arrest before being returned to the care of his butler, Alfred Pennyworth."_ The screen showed the plaza, this time, less crowded as people could be seen in the distance trying to flee through unseen door ways and secluded alleyways. Bruce's face flushed with embarrassment as he saw himself slammed onto the ground by two police officers, and his wrists bound with zip ties. 

" _It is not known if Bruce Wayne was there to do business with any people of the criminal sort, but he was reported to be very inebriated at the time of his arrest, and release. Candidate for Police Captain, Jim Gordon, declined to comment."_ Bruce shut the television off before the reporter could continue. Alfred, as usual, was right and he wished he had listened to his butler about avoiding the news. It was hard enough being under the scrutiny of everyone in Gotham, now the news networks would be covering this scandal until the next big thing in Gotham happened.

Reluctantly, Bruce knew that he would have to make some sort of appearance today to deal with accusations that would be flying from last night. He began to thumb through his contacts to search for his publicist. He had never needed the help of another person to present himself in a good light, sure he was awkward and not exactly the most charismatic man out there but Gotham loved the idea of Bruce Wayne more than the actual man, but his reputation wouldn't help him now. 

Names flew under his thumb as Bruce looked for the publicist's number, marked under T, but one name caught his eye.

There was a new contact in his phone and it's name was Jack Napier. At least he thought it was. The name was spelt more like 'jck Nahpir' so he had to take a few creative liberties. 

Bruce stopped and looked up from the phone to glance around the room. It seemed too surreal, like a miracle. Maybe this wasn't even the same Jack. Did he know any Napiers? It was too foggy to tell, so he indulged himself and pressed the contact name. 

A phone number with a Gotham area code appeared on his screen and he could hear the dial tone ring two times before it was picked up. He brought it to his ear, and heard the distorted sound of fabric being moved and a the soft sound of a groggy moan. 

"Napier, what'cha need?" said Jack's nasally croon that hammered a nail into Bruce's already pounding head. 

"Is this Jack?" Bruce said, thoughts of the other man entered his head and a small pit of frustration sat in his stomach. Jack's general unpleasantness and unsettlingness was still conveyed through the phone. Naturally, he disliked Jack, who wouldn't, regarding the circumstances. He could say it was hate, perhaps, but the absence of alcohol at this moment helped Bruce to regulate his feelings, and feelings of hate were quelled and replaced with a uncertainty and morbid curiosity. (and of course, a desire to get his wallet back). 

There was a pause before the other man answered, Jack had recognized his voice. "You're kidding" He heard a sharp chuckle "How'd you get my number?" 

"I didn't," Bruce said "I just found it in my phone." He had assumed during their drunken stupor, Jack had somehow given it to him. 

He heard a curt sigh on the other end of the line. "Then why are you calling me?" Since he had sobered up, Jack seemed to have lost some of his erraticness over the phone, and he hardly sounded like the mugger, or the performer or the everyman dressed in a tan coat. His tone had a more businesslike quality towards it. Bruce's phone call seemed unwelcome. 

"I just need my wallet back," Bruce said cautiously, hoping that Jack viewed him as an acquaintance after the events of Skid Row. 

"Y'know, I've just got a huge hangover and I've got a lot on my plate, being poor as dirt, so can I call you back later, and we can discuss the whole wallet issue then?" Jack obviously wanted to hold on to the mass of wealth at his fingertips for a little bit longer. Bruce couldn't blame him, he had more money then he needed, but who knows what Jack was spending it on. "I had to run from the cops, in the soaking rain, drunk out of my mind, I think I deserve a little compassion, generosity, if you will-"

"Jack-" Bruce said sharply, cutting him off before he could continue. 'So what, I almost was shot, by you!' He thought. 

"Fine," There was a small sigh on the other end of the line. "Stop by Cleopatra's Needle at nine, that's when you can get it back."

"Can't I just meet you now?" 

"You're awfully eager." Jack insinuated.

Bruce exhaled, becoming annoyed with Jack's attitude. He could just go to the police and this would be over in a heartbeat, he had Jack's number, they could trace it back to him. But he was under enough scrutiny as it was, and he didn't want to go anywhere near the GCPD, the beat cops were notorious for their gossip. 

"Ok, but it better not be anything like Skid Row." Bruce answered, not thrilled at the idea of following Jack blindly into another (possibly shady) place in Gotham again.

"Trust me, billionaire boy, this place has class." 

"Like the bar had class?" 

Bruce could almost hear Jack's eyes roll through the phone. "It'll be fine, you'll get your stuff back."

"Don't spend it all in one place," Bruce said sarcastically.

"You know me," Jack mused, Bruce thought otherwise. "Nine, right?"

"Fine," Bruce said before hanging up the phone, and tossing it onto the white linens of the bed, not offering it a second glance. 

He shuffled into the slab of white marble and elegant trim that was his bathroom, and rubbed his chin. He really should call the police, or at least tell someone about Jack. He still knew virtually nothing about him. Except he was a pianist, or a comedian, or whatever lie he had told him. He couldn't bring himself to trust him, for a perfectly good reason. Bruce looked at himself in the mirror, his eyes had dark circles underneath them, and they were a little blood shot. He forgot about Jack as he inspected himself in the wide mirror, his dark hair stuck up in odd places, and he looked as hungover as he had ever been. 

'Do sane people really have conversations over the phone with people who tried to kill them less than 12 hours ago?' he thought, but dismissed the whim before he could think of the answer. 

He turned on the faucet of his sink, letting cool water cascade down into the basin and disappear down the drain. Cupping his hands, he let the cool water pool before splashing it onto his face. It didn't help the headache, but he felt a little less like a walking corpse. He wiped his face on a small hand towel, and walked across the room, his feet padding softly on the hard, cool floor to turn on the shower. A warm rain fell from the shower head, and steam began to collect on the mirror.

Bruce let his eyes travel back towards the plate of breakfast sitting on his bedside table. The least he could do for Alfred was finish his breakfast after all the stress he had given him last night, and before he got into the shower and tried to wash away the events of Skid Row, he finished his plate of eggs.

===

Alfred Pennyworth was a cook, a confidant, and most of all a damn good butler, but that of course didn't stop his ward from disappearing from underneath his nose, and the police force then proceeding on a city wide man hunt to bring him back into Alfred's care. 

The butler was busy scrubbing the plate left over from his humble breakfast, an egg, three sausage links and coffee, black, when Bruce shuffled down the stairs, shrugging a tan suit jacket over his shoulders. He glanced over his shoulder at the boy, and gave a small disapproving sound. He was angry at him, but more frightened than upset. Bruce was never the rebellious type, so his sudden disappearance had come as quite the shock to Alfred.

Of course, he knew something was wrong immediately when Bruce didn't appear in the back of the car, so he took it upon himself to explore the block and try and find him. When he hadn't, he called the police. Stricken with fear for Bruce and motivated for the care he had for the boy, he had followed around Gordon like a sick dog for the remainder of the night, trying as best he could to be an asset to the GCPD. 

It was a miracle that Bruce was found unscathed in a place like that horrid back alley, the deaths of Thomas and Martha all too fresh in Alfred's mind. 

Unclear of where to go next, he said nothing as Bruce stood silently.

"Al, I'm sorry if I frightened you, you have to know that whole thing wasn't supposed to happen." The boy mumbled. 

"I'm just glad you're alright," He said curtly, trying to remain stoic. He always tried to stay strong for Bruce, after all, the boy needed a father figure.

"I really mean it, I was heading to the car but this guy came out of nowhere and-" Bruce's voice began to shake and Alfred let the plate he was cleaning rest in the sink. "He had a gun-"

Alfred gripped the sponge in his hand, even more grateful for Bruce's safety. 

"he mugged me and took my wallet—“

He held his breath, even though Bruce was safe he was afraid of the outcome of the story, it was all too similar to the one fifteen years ago.

"but I'm fine." Bruce sighed. 

Alfred turned to face Bruce, unsure of what to say.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there, sir," He said, feeling guilty. It was his job to protect Bruce, after all. He was more than just a butler. To think that he couldn't be there for him when he was facing something that had plagued his sleep and gave the boy so much unwanted and undeserved pain and trauma, Alfred felt as if he had failed him. 

"It's not your fault, Al," Bruce said as he looked at the butler, who suddenly looked very old. Wrinkles crisscrossed his forehead, his pale grey eyes, hidden beyond the circular glasses and taken on a more cloudy quality in recent years, and Bruce could imagine that Alfred joints ached and groaned from all the work he put him through. 

Bruce took a step closer to bring his butler into a hug, Alfred gave him two firm pats on the back before letting go. The trauma (both old and new) shared between the two men, if only for a few moments of understanding.  

"You said you met someone last night, given you were drunk, but I'm curious." The two separated, and Alfred resumed cleaning the plate as Bruce took a seat at a small bar stool near the granite island that dominated the mahogany colored kitchen. 

The least he could do was tell the truth, but he was afraid the news of his and Jacks unlikely acquaintanceship would give his butler a heart attack, and the fact that he was going to meet him again would send him to retirement, Bruce decided against it. 

“I was drunk.” He confirmed. “I can barely remember anything I said.” 

“Well, we should thank Lieutenant Gordon, he was a large help during the whole ordeal.” Alfred switched the faucet of the sink off and dried his hands on a towel. 

“I’d rather be anywhere else than a hundred feet near the GCPD right now, you know the press would be on us in seconds.” Bruce couldn’t imagine what they were going to say when he decided to make another public appearance.

”I don’t want to see my face plastered on a tabloid that says I’m falling into an alcoholic spiral.” Bruce let his chin rest in his hand. 

“Perhaps meeting him at a different place, away from the press would be more desirable,” Alfred said as he ran a dishcloth over the granite counter top, which was already impeccably clean.

Bruce saw an in, there was no way that Alfred would let him run off to some unknown place in search for his wallet without a reason. It was simple, make a fake phone call to Gordon, arrive at Cleopatra’s Needle at nine, get his wallet back, and never see Jack Napier again. 

“There’s this new place, Cleopatra’s Needle, I heard it’s quite nice, but not too formal.” Bruce lied. He bit his cheek, hoping Alfred wouldn’t notice his obvious lie. He didn't get out of the manor much, Alfred's cooking was far too delicious to pass up.  

Alfred paused to look at Bruce, his glare like fire as he assessed Bruce’s comment. “Alright then, give him a call.”

 "Will do," Bruce said awkwardly before silently excusing himself to make the nonexistent phone call. Alfred gave him a puzzled look before he exited the kitchen, Bruce's heart pounded with anxiety. There was no way of hiding this from Alfred, and his butler was smarter than he let on. He couldn't imagine what Alfred would say if he figured out what was going on, he would tell him to call the police and despite the fact that Bruce was an adult now, he would still end up grounded. 

Bruce pulled his phone out of his pocket to look once more at Jack's contact in his phone, his thumb hovering over the small 'delete' button in the top right corner of the screen. It would be so easy. But something held him back, going against all reason and logic Bruce Wayne would meet Jack Napier once more. 

===

The rain from the night before had left large puddles strewn across the city, and in them lie the reflected images of windows shining in the skyscrapers above. Bruce watched droplets of clear water roll down the glass pane of the car window as Alfred drove him slowly through the downtown crawl of Gotham. Light leaking from above gave the illusion that it was still midday, even though the cloudy skies above had faded into a rich black. 

Cleopatra's Needle was far from Skid Row, and was surprisingly close to the core of the city. It sat on a street corner off of one of the veins leading from the pumping heart of main street. It looked nothing like the worn bar bathed in bloody lighting and hidden underneath the tarps in Skid Row. The facade of the building was a deep inkwell black that somehow managed to stand out from Gotham's industrial color palate. Large windows framed a deep blue door on either side of the building, and people could be seen inside, sipping from wine glasses and chatting as a jazz trio played in the background, the sound of Glenn Miller spilling out onto the sidewalk as pedestrians passed the place by. The name of the club sat comfortably above the door, decked in golden lettering, the 'o' in Cleopatra had been replaced with the eye of Horus, that gazed at Bruce judgmentally as he stepped out of the car. Luckily, the paparazzi were nowhere in sight, but Bruce didn't expect that would last long. 

"When will Gordon be arriving, sir?" Alfred said as he shut the car door behind Bruce to eye the building. He nodded, giving it his stamp of approval.

"I'm sure he's already indoors." Bruce lied, avoiding eye contact with his butler as he looked into the building, he could see now that the stage near the back of the building was empty. He glanced at his watch. 8:57. 

"Why, I better come in then-" Alfred began.

"No!" Bruce said suddenly, Alfred frowned. "No, you cant because." He paused as he searched for an excuse. "I left my wallet at home!" He said. "Jim wanted to grab a bite to eat, he just got off his shift and I thought I would be courteous and pay for him." Bruce was surprised at how easily the lie fell off of his tongue, but it didn’t make him feel any less guilty. He hoped Alfred wouldn't catch on. 

"Sorry, Al," Bruce said with a small sympathetic smile.

"I'll try to get your wallet back to you before you finish your dinner," Alfred said as he crossed in front of the car to get back into the driver's seat. 

"It's on my nightstand," Bruce said. "Thanks again."

Alfred gave a small nod, and before he could duck back into the car he said, "I urge you to stay away from any alcohol tonight, sir. We know how it ended last night." He raised an expectant eyebrow at the boy.

"Just water for me tonight," Bruce said with a smile as he inched towards the sapphire door of Cleopatra's Needle.

Alfred gave a small nod, and sat in the car. Bruce watched his butler disappear around the street corner before he entering the building. 

Bruce's hand closed around the doorknob to the building, which was shaped as an over sized needle with a piece of golden thread strung through the eye. The space was bathed in a dim rosy lighting that fit the glitzy atmosphere of what anyone would think a jazz club would look like. There was a continual hum in the air as groups of people chatted and laughed easily, glasses clinked, sparkling in the low lighting, and from the kitchen the sound of plates and the smell of well made food filled the room. The stage in the corner, and sitting in front of a backdrop of plum velvet sat a few microphones and music stands scattered around, along with a drum set that had a hole in it's largest drum. A baby grand piano also rested on the dark wood of the platform, but no one sat on it's bench. People looked towards the stage, waiting for the next performer to appear. 

"Can I help you?" said a voice to the left of Bruce. A woman stood behind a small podium, an easy smile on her face that matched the tone of the club. 

"Yes," Bruce began, tearing his eyes away from the stage. "I'm looking for someone--"

Notes flew through the air in a soft pianissimo, falling from the ivory keys like stardust as a man took a seat at the piano. His thin hands slid across the piano, tapping out a few notes to warm up. There was a polite smattering of applause from the people sitting at the tables before they went back to their meals. 

"Thanks," said Jack as he gave a halfhearted wave to the crowd, his posture was poor and he was hunched over to make himself look small. "Tips are appreciated, I'm sure you all know a musician could need it." a few chuckles ran through the club as Jack began to let chords ring from the keys. Bruce was dumbfounded as he watched Jack poke at the crowd.

"Sir?" The hostess said. 

"I'm just going to take a seat," Bruce said, confused and mesmerized by Jack's sudden appearance. 

Bruce almost didn't recognize the man sitting at the piano. Partly because of the fog that was his first meeting with Jack but also because he had cleaned up. His hair had been pushed off his forehead in soft blondish waves, he didn't look as sickly, or maybe the pinkish hue of the club was just doing him a favor. He was dressed in a black suit jacket that seemed to sparkle in the lighting. It fit him well, flattering his slight figure. He looked like a famous musician, complete with a charming smile that turned more than a few heads in the club. He had shed the ordinary persona that had greeted Bruce in the rain.

"Anyone know Sinatra?" He said as he looked around the club, a grin appearing on his angular face. Bruce could have sworn Jack's green eyes landed on him for a second. 

 Jack then began to play the song, and suddenly Bruce was seven years old, sitting on a great rug in a small study in Wayne manor. A grand fireplace sat in the corner, crackling with fire. He sat quietly reading a book as rain poured down the window pane, trapping him and his parents indoors. Sinatra's Strangers in the Night sounded from a record player, fuzzy with age. His parents danced together, swaying to the music. He could smell the wood burning, and his mother's sweet jasmine perfume. 

 Jack began to swing the song as chords spilled from the piano, he now sat up straight on the bench and there was a look of ease on his face accompanied with a small smile that didn't disappear as he began to sing the lyrics.

 _"Strangers in the night--"_ His voice had a strange quality to it, a mixture between speaking and singing that was completely unique  _"Exchanging glances."_ His tone was no where near the smooth baritone of Sinatra, but somehow it still fit the song.

 _"Wonderin' through the night,"_  There was an angular shape that Jack had put on the words,  _"What were the chances we'd be sharing love, before the night was through?"_ As the notes grew higher in tone, Jack's voice took on a thin and pitchy tone that wasn't the most pleasant on the ears, but with the way his hands moved across the piano, swaying slightly to the beat, his passion was obvious and his odd hum could be excused.

 _"Somethin' in your eyes, was so inviting, somethin' in your smile,"_ He leaned back in his seat and on cue, flashed a wide, white smile at the audience who's attention had been lost their dinner plates and past conversations. Bruce suddenly felt like he was the only one paying Jack any regard, but the man on the stage didn't seem to mind that he had lost his audience. "W _as so exciting, somethin' in my heart told me I must have you."_

 _"Strangers in the night, two lonely people we were strangers in the night."_ The bridge of the song turned Jack's attention back to the ivory keys as he tapped out swooping chords and pralltrillers that added an extra layer to the familiar ballad.   _"Up to the moment we said our first hello,"_  

 _"Little did we know,"_ Jack looked out into the audience as he made a grand gesture and slowed down the song. " _Love was just a glance away, a warm embracing dance away and--"_ His pale hands stayed suspended above the keys for an instant, and Bruce thought the song had ended.

Jack shot him a puckish glance before continuing, " _Ever since that night, we've been together,"_

 _"Lovers at first sight!"_ His voice swelled with the music, taking on a more full quality than before, his grin could be heard through the music.  _"In love forever,"_

 _"It turned out so right,"_ Jack looked back towards the piano as he finished the last for chords of the song off with a sweeping cadenza. "F _or strangers in the night."_

The last few notes fell from his fingers and into the air, the remnants of the chord he had played before still reverberating through the wooden chest of the instrument, Jack's hands were suspended in air, as if he was about to play another song. The building was silent before the guests began to clap, it was thin and spread out, but Jack still stood and graciously bowed as if he had received a standing ovation at Gotham's opera house. 

Bruce could feel the vivid memories of his parents disappear as he returned to Cleopatra's Needle, he began to clap too, in awe at Jack's playing. He couldn't begin to describe what he felt, an intense longing for things to go back to what they were, an obligation to move on. Bruce felt terribly sad and reassured all at once, and he choked back a lump in his throat, refusing to let the song's gentle lyrics get the best of him. Then there was the question of Jack, for some reason Bruce got the impression that he was singing to him. Well, he was awkward but he wasn't totally oblivious towards the connotation of the words. But despite all his discomfort, hesitation and anxiety, Bruce felt himself drawn to Jack after hearing the song, for whatever reason. 

"Thank you ladies and gentleman," Jack began clasping his hands together, "Again, tips are appreciated." Jack began to back up towards the curtain on the stage, making eye contact with Bruce as he pulled back the fabric. "Have a good night." With a grin, Jack disappeared, leaving the stage blank for the next act. 

Bruce sat at the table for a moment, trying to digest what had just happened as the next group made their way on to the stage. 

A brass ensemble arranged themselves in a semi circle when he stood from his chair. Pinkish lights reflected off of the brassy color of the trombones and trumpets, blinding, if only for a moment. The musician's raised the mouth pieces to their lips, and the room erupted in the bright sound of Harlem jazz as Bruce escaped through a door wedged between the stage and the kitchen that led to an alleyway, determined not to let Jack slip through his fingers again. 

The alleyway behind Cleopatra's Needle was like any alleyway in Gotham, dark and narrow with fire escapes crisscrossing up above his head. Except this alleyway contained Jack Napier.

He sat on the steps of a doorway parallel to the exit of the Needle. Bruce held his breath as he stood there, watching for a moment, either to take the man's presence in or to pray that he wouldn't draw a gun again. Jack was quiet, his head bowed as he stared at a lit cigarette pinched between his thin fingers. Muffled jazz leaked through the brick walls and out into the alleyway, seeping into the nighttime din of Gotham, police sirens, car horns and chatter from unseen windows up above. The world seemed unnaturally quiet as Bruce waited for one of them to speak.

Jack thumbed the cigarette as he looked at Bruce, a smile absent from his face. He looked much more grave than the musician on the stage only moments before. Bruce couldn't understand why. 

"I didn't realize you could play so well," said Bruce, breaking the odd silence between the two. He didn't know what else to say, and 'I was deeply moved by that song and your voice, and I also think that you look nice in that suit.' didn't seem to fit the tone. 

The other man tilted his head to the side before answering. "Thanks." His voice was monotone, melody and variation missing from his words. All the joy and ease he had up on stage was gone, his whole demeanor had changed, Bruce still didn't know what to think of the man's different moods. Jack drew himself up, and flicked the cigarette out of his hand, Bruce's eyes were drawn to the orange embers and a trail of grey smoke before it landed in a murky puddle and sizzled out. Bruce's lip twitched as he watched Jack stand slowly, expecting him to crack a joke or give a sly innuendo. 

Jack stood a foot away from Bruce now, and he could see now that the suit jacket he was wearing had embroidery on it, small, delicate snakes, flowers and insects. The pattern was strikingly familiar, beloved by Gotham's elites and the nouveau rich. 

"You're kidding," Bruce said, whatever good feelings towards Jack disappearing. "That's a Gucci suit, you've got to be kidding me." Bruce knew immediately that Jack had used his money to buy it, and he was astonished at his audaciousness, and hurt by his broken promise. Impulsively he reached out to grab the black velvet lapels of the the suit jacket as the other man began to snicker, his dour demeanor changing to one of glee. 

Bruce looked in horror at the suit, "How much did it cost?" 

Jack's laughter only grew. "Why should you care, you've got money to spare!" He choked out between bursts of laughter. Bruce let go of the lapel.

"Fine. Fine!" Bruce said, throwing his hands up. "Keep the suit, just give me my wallet back," He said exasperatedly, running a hand through his hair.

"Okay," Jack raised an eyebrow and made a show of putting his hands in the air. "It's in my pocket" He reached in to the suit, grinning as he did so, taking pleasure in the anxiety he brought Bruce, who was becoming less and less enamored with Jack's enigma. 

Bruce saw red when Jack's thin hand emerged empty handed.

"You don't have it?" He seethed, trying to keep himself from both shouting and reaching for Jack's throat. 

"I swear it was in my suit's pocket," Jack said as he turned the pockets inside out. "but not this suit's pocket." He offered Bruce a smile, which he declined to return.

"The Narrows aren't far from here, we can just call a cab and be back here in ten min-"

"No- No way, that last time I followed you I lost my wallet, ended up slobbering drunk in a criminal hot spot in Gotham with my name plastered all over every newspaper in Gotham, we're calling my butler, and then you're going to the GCPD."  Bruce decided as he pulled his phone from his pocket, trying to think of a way to explain all of this to Alfred.

Jack's expression froze at the mention of the police. "C'mon, Bruce, it's just a simple mistake, you know how much paperwork you have to sign when you put someone behind bars? I'll save you the time- a lot - you'll be there all night." He made his voice smooth and appealing, trying to manipulate Bruce into having his way. The anger made the situation seem less gray to Bruce, this time he wouldn't let himself fall for Jack's flattering words. 

"If I never have to deal with you again it'll be worth it." Bruce spat. "Don't go anywhere." 

Alfred answered almost immediately, "Sir I'm outside of the building, did your dinner with Gordon go well?"

Bruce looked towards Jack, who was picking at the hem of the suit. Jack didn't think much of Bruce's threat to turn him into the police, they were already looking for him in the first place. Besides, as soon as they reached the Narrows and Wayne got his wallet back he would slip back under the radar, lie low and do a few jobs for Falcone. 

He was surprised that the mob boss hadn't attended his performance tonight, Falcone liked to hear him play. Even though Jack wasn't really part of Falcone's crew, the don had taken a soft spot for Jack. 'hidden potential' and whatnot. It had started out as something small, just to make some extra cash, but the mob had latched on to him, and the promise of a full stomach and a pocket full of cash had pulled Jack in too deep. At least Falcone didn't know about Wayne, and he intended to keep it that way. He knew what would happen if the mob boss got his hand into Bruce's pocket. 

He looked towards the billionaire, he was speaking to that butler over the phone, a hand knotted into the straight black hair at the back of his head. He somehow managed to look statuesque and unwaveringly gorgeous in his rage. For all of Jack's impishness and general annoyances Wayne had still managed to be a gentleman. Guilty, Jack looked down at the suit, perhaps it was a bit much.

"My butler's here," said Bruce sharply. 

Jack simply shrugged, Bruce didn't need to tell him twice to follow him out of the alleyway and back into the street. 

A black town car sat in front of the black and gold facade of the Needle, and the outline of Alfred could be seen sitting in the drivers seat. Bruce huffed as cameras began to flash, illuminating the dark sidewalks. Jack tried to hide his face, there was no way Falcone wasn't going to see this, then where would he be?  

Where would Wayne be, he thought as Bruce absentmindedly opened back door of the car for Jack. Even at his wits end he didn't lose the politeness and charm that came with the Wayne's family name. Even though Jack had manipulated and toyed with him he wouldn't want Falcone anywhere near Bruce. 

"Sir, I thought you said you lost your wallet, last night," said an older man in the front seat of the car, which Jack guesed to be Wayne's butler. 

"Just.. take us to the Narrows, please." Bruce interjected, shooting a sideways glare at Jack as Alfred rolled away from the Needle. 

Jack stared out of the window, it was unusual, having someone drive him. He got by with hot wired cars that were barely standing on their four wheels. He watched Bruce's figure through the reflection of the window, a few dark tresses of hair kissed his furrowed brow, steel blue eyes preoccupied themselves with his phone screen, he obviously didn't want to pay Jack any attention. Bruce and Jack were such opposites, in every imaginable way, from appearance to upbringing. Jack resented the rich and powerful that pulled all the strings in Gotham, not thinking once of the people in communities that it effected. Bruce ran with that crowd, but he seemed to be untouched by the city's corruption, innocent in the face of their crimes. 

"You can't be silent forever, Bruce," said the butler. His voice was posh and polished. Not only did Wayne have a butler, but he had a British butler. "Why don't you introduce your... friend." The old man gave Jack a questioning look through the rear view mirror.

"Jack Napier," Jack said before Bruce could answer for him. 

"It's a pleasure, Mr.Napier." Now Jack saw where Bruce got his good manners. "If you don't mind me asking, where did you meet Bruce? He's never mentioned you before." 

"Oh..." Jack said as he turned his head away from the car's window to look at Bruce, who was giving him a look that said, 'if you mention anything about Skid Row you're getting kicked out of this car.' "Through friends, y'know." He waved his hand dismissively. 

"What friends?" Alfred continued, Jack got the distinct impression that the butler wasn't going to buy any of his charm or lies. 

"I didn't catch your name." He retorted.

"Alfred," said the butler, his voice holding a more pointed tone. 

"Right," Jack said, turning his attention back to the window. The scenery of tall sky scrapers and restaurants tucked onto street corners was disappeared as they passed over a bridge spanning Gotham's river feeding into the heart of the Narrows. Immediately Jack felt more at home around the dilapidated buildings, stacked on top one another connected by iron scaffolding and wooden stilts, with their broken windows and worn brick and concrete. Even though the sun had set, people were still roaming around in the dark, shoulders heavy from a long day of work with low pay. Despite the narrow's reputation, it still felt like home to him.

"I'm down by the docks," Jack said as Alfred continued to drive through the quickly narrowing streets. Neither Bruce or Alfred paid him any attention. "We can't drive there." 

Jack saw Bruce turn his head to share a look with Alfred, and the dark town car slowed to a stop.

More eyes were beginning to pay attention to the car, peering out into the street from bodegas closing for the night, balconies up above and side alleys that the evening shadows hid from view. Silently watching, their quiet stares telling Bruce and Alfre that they did not belong there. Bruce felt his heart beat quicken reflexively, and he looked to Alfred for some relief, his butler seemed just as uneasy as he was. 

Undeterred, Jack stepped out of the car and onto the street. 

"Someone should really watch the car," He said, ducking his head back into the car to grin and make eye contact with Bruce. "Not everyone out here is as personable as I am." Bruce gave him an indistinct look, and opened his car door to follow Jack.

"Master Bruce-" said Alfred. 

"It's fine, Al," He said, not breaking eye contact with Jack. "It'll only take a few."

Alfred gave him a steely look, "I don't know what's going on here, Bruce, but I must let you know that I don't like it."

Bruce offered a tenuous smile to his butler before stepping out of the town car. Guilt trailed him as he began to follow Jack.

"Atta boy." Jack tapped the roof of the car and shut the door.

"Are you going to hold me at gun point again?" Bruce asked, Jack could still hear the grievance in his voice. 

"We're past that." He answered, his tone snide and condescending. 

Now as Bruce took in the air of the Narrows, he could smell hearty food being cooked, hear chatter coming from open windows, taking in the slovenly scenery that made him even more grateful for the carefully manicured grounds of Wayne manor.  Jack walked across the street that Alfred had parked on, not even bothering to look for oncoming cars. 

They passed through a small alleyway that made Bruce turn his head to look over his shoulder out of the fear of being attacked. Above, clothes lines swung in an easy breeze, and the clothes clipped onto them cast eerie shadows into the dark alleyway. Blindly, he followed Jack out of the alleyway, soundlessly cursing himself for letting Jack drag him halfway across Gotham for just for his wallet. 

The darkened alleyway led onto a walkway bordering the pier, that wasn't as ill-groomed as the street that had led into the neighborhood, but apartment buildings still hugged the bank of the river, contributing to the feeling of claustrophobia that Bruce had developed when entering the Narrows. 

Water lapped at the concrete banks of the river, the glow of night reflecting off of the black water. It smelled purely of the city, industrial and sharp, and the view of the heart of the city sitting across the river was something to be jealous of. Whatever reservations Bruce was holding on to about Jack had vanished, there was no rule book to follow with him, and if Bruce needed to visit two of the most shady neighborhoods in two consecutive nights just to get his wallet back, that's how it was going to be. He wouldn't admit to the man's face, but Jack made it endearing. Maybe the song in Cleopatra's Needle had got to him. 

Jack stopped at the side of an apartment building, where a rusted fire escape was perched out of arms reach. 

"Give me a lift?" Jack asked inconspicuously as he pointed to the scaffold.

"Can't we just use the front door?" Bruce asked as he motioned towards the entrance where a flickering light illuminated the door way.

"No, No way." Jack shook his head. "Landlord, nice guy, hates me-"

"I wonder why," Bruce said as he looked towards the scaffolding.

"Just give me a boost." Jack sighed, Bruce's once endearing stubbornness becoming more of a hindrance.  

"Like by the waist?" Bruce motioned awkwardly as he took a step towards Jack.

"God no," He snickered. "Just lace your fingers together and lift me up." 

He did so, and Jack placed his foot in Bruce's hands, placing a hand on his shoulder for balance. Bruce held his breath, flustered with the sudden closeness of the other man. With a metallic rasp, the fire escape was free and a ladder descended to the ground. Jack started up the railway without a second word.

"You're welcome," said Bruce as he trailed Jack. "You know this has been an awfully long endeavor just to get my wallet back,"

"and you've got to spend it with me, y'know, not every common criminal has the moral judgement, and the decency and the all around generosity to give Bruce Wayne's wallet back to him." Jack made a grandiose gesture as he stopped at a window on the fourth story of the building. 

"Now you're just complimenting yourself," Bruce said as he reached the window, what anger he had about the suit jacket had nearly vanished. 

"Maybe so, He said as he jimmied the window to the apartment open, Jack slipped in through the window with ease and Bruce followed, though with less grace.

It was too dark in the room to make out anything before Jack turned on a floor lamp that illuminated the area in a dim glow.

The apartment was cramped and falling apart. The only thing of value in the room seemed to be the piano, which had sheet music strewn around it's legs. A framed portrait of Tom Lehrer sat on the instrument, staring down at it's ivory keys. The worn hardwood floors had holes in it, and Bruce was afraid of walking through the room for fear of falling through to the apartment below. A thread bare rug covered the floor in the center of a room, and a sagging couch was sadly pushed up against the wall. There was a modest coffee table, and on it sat more sheet music and a pistol, which didn't help to calm Bruce's nerves. The one redeeming quality of the space was the fire escape, that had a clear view of the river and downtown. For all his show and glamour, Jack lived humbly, if not in total poverty. 

Jack emerged from a room off the side of the living area, that Bruce thought was his bedroom. He had shed the expensive jacket, and instead wore a pale collard shirt, with the top few buttons undone that laid bare the smooth and pale skin of Jack's throat, which Bruce didn't allow his eyes to linger on for long. In his lean hand was the wallet that had caused Bruce so much grief. 

Before Jack could open his mouth, the harsh sound of a gun shot pierced the air. Bruce ducked downwards and covered his head, as if he was a child, he imagined the rain pouring down his back and the dull thud of the bullet landing between his father's ribs, the color of the blood falling from his mother's chest was violently red, his breathing was short and frantic, but as soon as the images came they were gone.

"Are you okay?" Jack said, the puzzled concern in his voice waving away his panic. 

 "It's fine, It's fine." Bruce repeated to himself as he stood back up straight and adjusted himself, unconcerned with Jack's opinion of his panic attack. 

"Was that a gunshot?" Bruce managed to form over the ringing of his ears, the sights and sounds of the Narrows were becoming too much for him to take in. 

"Yeah, it's the neighbors." 

"How often-"

"Every night." He answered, looking upwards towards the water stained ceiling. Bruce couldn't make out the expression on his face. But he knew one thing, he felt enormously guilty.

"Shouldn't you call the police?" He whispered to Jack.

"Why bother? It's not like they're going to come out all the way out here."

"They can't not come it's-"

"Well they don't." Jack drew back, his tone defensive. "You wouldn't get it." 

The world had an eerie silence after the gunshot, and the two stood there, trying to get a glimpse into the other's life. 

It was so jarring to hear Jack's perspective, all Bruce had known was that the police were there to serve and protect but in the Narrows, and Skid Row, that was definitely not the case. He couldn't imagine them abandoning a place that needed help the most. How many kids in the Narrows had grown up like him, but without the guidance and protection of their parents, and the privilege of having a guardian that cared for them like their own child. 

Soundlessly, Jack extended his arm to Bruce, wallet in hand. 

Bruce took back the wallet, knowing that there wasn't much more he could say. He was so separated from the Narrows and Jack's life, and he felt the desire to say something, to tell Jack that despite his flaws he still deserved to feel secure in the city. Bruce was quickly learning that the possibility of that happening was slim, Gotham was a city with a complex relationship with crime, it was woven into the fabric of the place, every piece of history had a dark side, and it would take more than a new police chief, or another extraneous budget to make Gotham change. He ran his thumb over the smooth leather of the wallet. Was all his philanthropy and good example in vain? He didn't think it was possible, he didn't want to believe that it was. 

And then there was Jack. With his lopsided smile, sardonic humor and engrossing mystery. Bruce knew, that even after this was said and done, he wouldn't be able to forget about him. The quiet was more comfortable between the two as Bruce's eyes idly lingered on Jack's blondish hair, the sharp angle of his nose and the curve of his lips, all cast in a dusky evening glow. He was reminded of the song however many moments ago, and came to the quiet realization that the morbid curiosity he had for Jack was an infatuation of sorts, however small and questionable it really was.

"Let me come to another one of your shows," said Bruce, finally breaking the silence. 

"That's not a good idea," Jack said, avoiding his eyes. 

"Why not?"

Bruce suspected that he had scratched the surface of something Jack didn't want to share, he didn't pry any further.

"Um I guess I'll be going," 

"I thought you were going to march me into the GCPD." Jack inquired, his tone flat..

"Just one more show," Bruce said, trying to meet Jack's eyes.

There was a pause, "Fine." Jack answered, unable to say no. Bruce got the impression that the feelings he had were mutual. "Now, please get out of my living room."

"Right," Bruce said, tearing his eyes away from him to look around the room, whatever confidence he had gained disappeared at Jack's invitation to leave. "I'll get going." He tucked the wallet into his back pocket, backing up to the open window.

He shimmed one arm and leg through the window and gave Jack a stiff wave in goodbye. He returned the gesture with a small shake of his head an an easy smirk. Bruce climbed out of the apartment, letting the glass pane close behind him.  

The water of the Gotham river was just as dark as before as Bruce made his way back through the Narrows to Alfred.

"I don't like that man, Bruce." was all Alfred could say before driving from the cramped buildings. Bruce couldn't ignore the huddled masses in the door ways now, he saw everything in the neighborhood. The struggle, the pain and the needless violence and crime. He saw the simple shine of a knife in the dark, and the blood stains on the side walk consigned to oblivion, written off as normal. 

His mind still raced with thoughts about Jack, and the matter of the Narrows itself. A thought of a black clad savior crossed his mind, a frightening creature with wings that beat with purpose to protect and serve, but the idea faded into the caliginous channel that separated his life of wealth and benefit from the more grey and abstract one of the city, perhaps to surface from the waters when most needed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering what Jack's voice sounds like https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lBALD4uLjeY
> 
> If you're wonering what his piano cover of Strangers in the Night sounds like: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a8EZb3JQGoM


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -=-Important Please Read-=-
> 
> This chapter deals with some bloodplay and non-con elements after Jack's conversation with Falcone, it's not super integral to the plot so you may skip it if you wish.
> 
> Here's the song Jack plays in this chapter: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xe2UXccid40

It was an unusual and humbling experience to enter into to the Falcone mansion. It's face was a stony grey, with Gothic spires a dark roof that reminded Jack of one of Gotham's many cathedrals. In a sense, the place was holy, for the members of Falcone's gang. Gargoyles peered down at Jack, ivy spilling from their gaping mouths, and covering the darkened windows of the home. The air was still warm and from the gardens that decorated the mansion’s front lawn came a earthy perfume, that was beginning to fade with the setting sun. A man dressed in a sharp suit stopped him before entering, and in return, Jack handed over his pistol to the man before entering the place's great hall, maroon in color and decorated with crests and paintings that were worth more than his life. Portraits of past heads of the family stared down at him with a disparaging attitude, making Jack feel small and insignificant. Every inch of the place seeped heritage, blood and power. 

Jack had never had the option to shy away from danger, of course the mob had a presence in a place like the Narrows, it was like the water in the river, present but forgotten if you weren't thinking about it. But there was something about Carmine Falcone that always set his teeth on edge. The man lived and breathed the city, and even with all of his time spent in the darkest parts of Gotham, breathing in the city's stench and witnessing it's bones break under the pressure of crime and corruption, he would never be able to understand it in the way that Falcone did, in a way that was beyond profound. 

All under the constant pressure of the media, the GCPD and the weight of his occupation, Falcone's backbone held up Gotham's crumbling infrastructure, more so than the police or the joke of a mayor's office that claimed to pull all the strings. Jack didn't think he would ever be able to handle preassure like that, one bllurry photo of him stepping into the back of Bruce Wayne's car and suddenly his private life vanished. He had expected hoards of paparazzi to follow him to the mansion, but he managed to slip under their radar for a day. 

Two large dark wood doors marked the end of the hallway, and Falcone's office. Two guards stood motionless, except to open the doors for him.

Falcone's office was much more personal than the mansion itself. Ironically, it looked like it was straight out of the Godfather with it's low lighting streaming through closed blinds, ornate fireplace and ornate rugs. Few pictures decorated the room, depicting Falcone in a more humane light, posing at a birthday party, holding a baby up to the camera with a smile on his face. Even the most ruthless man in Gotham still possessed some humanity. 

 "Jack," said Falcone from a rich upholstered chair. Carmine blended into the lavish atmosphere of the room, hidden behind a large desk that prevented anyone from getting too close.  He was an older man, with a hooked nose and grey streaks running through dark hair, but Jack knew by now not to under estimate the man. The shadows hiding keen grey eyes moved as he tilted his head, the old man folded his hands on the desk. "my boy." 

"Sir," Jack said cautiously.

"Take a seat," Carmine gestured with one open hand to a equally lavish chair sitting before the desk.

Carmine took his time between words, and reached into his desk to pull a bottle of amber liquid into the light, he set it on the desk, accompanied with a heavy sound. Two crystalline glasses emerged, and he placed them side by side. Jack's nerves wouldn't settle as he watched the man slowly pour the whiskey into the two glasses. Jack watched his deliberate movements, and tried to sit comfortably in his oversized chair. 

"It's a twenty year old bourbon," Carmine said, pushing the glass towards Jack. "Like heaven on the tongue." 

Jack took the glass, knowing that he didn't have another choice. They toasted silently, and Jack drew a long sip from the glass. It was nothing like the trash in Skid Row, and like Falcone said, it was heaven on the tongue. Creamy and rich, with the undertones of cinnamon and allspice, he savored the drink, but his nerves were not calmed yet. 

"How's business in the Narrows?" said Falcone, cutting to the chase.

"As usual, a few more loans were taken out, the restaurants have been making their usual profit, at least that's what I've heard from the capo."

Jack wasn't even part of the crime family, he hadn't even served as a ground solider, much less a capo. Somehow, Falcone had taken an interest in him after witnessing Jack seize part of the mob's network in the Narrows, all without having to do his own dirty work. What could he say, he played the crowds like a piano, who wouldn't notice after a while. Still, he refused becoming a full fledged member, even if he was already at Falcone's beck and call. 

"Down by the docks?"

"I'm keeping on eye on that Cobblepot guy, he hasn't moved far from the fishing ports. After we took care of his friend, he's been quieter than usual.”

"Good."

Since Jack had became an associate of Falcone's, he had been working as his eyes, in Skid Row, down by the docks, and around the GCPD. Jack had a talent for becoming unnoticeable in a crowd, if he really willed it. It had it's perks, he had finally been able to fill his stomach fully in the first time in months and he could see that his cheeks had begun to fill out, all thanks to the mob's dirty money. He didn't mind the job at first, Jack's conscience, like most people's in Gotham's was a little misguided, but ever since Falcone had made him start to do his dirty work, he wanted to quit. Violence was a necessary cost of the mob's business model, and Jack wanted to leave not because it disgusted him, but because he enjoyed it. He remembered the feeling of Falcone pressing a pistol into his outstretched palm, a balanced weight that had felt so right sitting in his pocket. It had only escalated from there, and his conscience faded even further once he replaced the pistol with a small switchblade. Blood from some unnamed soul's veins stained the hilt, and it was a reminded that Jack needed to get out before he was too far gone. 

Falcone took a sip from the glass of whiskey, eyeing Jack decisively over the sparkling rim. "What about the Needle?"

"What about it? I thought you didn't have any of the family there." Jack tried to dodge the question.

"Don't act stupid, Napier. 'Cause you're sure as hell not." Falcone set the glass back down onto the desk with a sharp thunk. "Wayne, I'm talking about Wayne. How'd that happen." Jack felt acutely aware of his heart beating in his chest at the mention of Bruce's name. 

"It's a long story."

"I've got time." Falcone's tone darkened, telling Jack that he would make time, if necessary. 

"Fine. I've been strapped for cash, you see, ever since that GCPD raid ,so I thought I would do a little job, to pick up something on the side. I mugged Wayne, totally coincidental, of course, and I didn't want the cops on my tail for a mugging and a murder, so I got him drunk and kept the wallet. Wayne eventually realized it was gone, and I gave it back to him.”

”Nothing more?” Falcone insinuated, Jack wasn't particularly fond of his tone. 

”Nothing.” He swallowed. 

"You're one lucky son of a bitch if you robbed a guy like Wayne and got away with it," He said suddenly, giving a short chuckle. "Wayne has got to have some affectionate feelings towards you if he let you go."

Jack had been trying to avoid that thought all through the month, ever since he met eyes with Bruce in his apartment. 

"What I'm saying is," Falcone leaned forward in his chair and tapped on the desk with his index finger. "Wayne has a lot of money, and may be in need of a little protection." 

"You're not saying-" If there was anyone who didn't deserve to be wrapped up in Falcone's games, it was Bruce. Jack was in awe at how genuine he was, surround by all the corporate ladder climbers and girls hanging off of him, trying to get a handful of his trust fund. 

"What? He could be a big asset." 

"Wayne has the moral compass the size of Gotham and Metropolis combined there is no way-" Jack protested, trying to keep Bruce as far away from Falcone as possible. 

”Let’s not beat around the bush,” Falcone said flatly. “He thinks you’re his friend. Maybe more. Use that.”

”Wayne’s not my type.” Jack hissed through his teeth as he crossed his arms. 

“You’re the only one who can do this job.” He shrugged. “It’s not like I can send Marco or Anthony out there to do this. We need your... charm.”

”What’s that supposed to mean,” Jack said sarcastically. He knew exactly what Falcone was eluding to. The mob boss knew that Jack was gay, and he always held it over his head, with offhanded jabs about outing him, with those stupid goddamn innuendos that made Jack’s skin crawl, he critized the way he dressed or spoke, telling him it wasn’t ‘man’ enough. No matter what he did and how much he contributed, Falcone only saw him as a fag.

He was never meant to know. No one was. He worried most about the press, they were even more nosy then the members of the mob, he couldn't go halfway down the block without someone snapping a photo of him. For now, he was branded as 'Billionaire's Mysterious Friend' but if the press ever found out he could imagine the headlines, 'Bruce Wayne Pursuing Relationship with Gay Mob Contact' it was laughable. Jack already had a few targets on his back when he joined Falcone’s gang as his right hand man and he didn’t want another one. If you were close to the boss you had to watch your back, it was cutthroat and everyone wanted more power, more money or drugs or whatever Falcone could offer. He couldn’t imagine how some of the men below him would act if they found out he was gay. They all had this terrible masculinity complex that Jack found unnecessary, but it accompanied the gang’s lifestyle.

He was reckless, and had a fling with another guy in the mob, they had broken it off forever ago, mostly due to the fact that the man in question ended up with a bullet in his brain, but Falcone still liked to use his sexuality as leverage. 

“Get close with Wayne, or the boys will find out about this little thing you have on the side.” 

Jack's blood went cold and he crossed his arms tighter across his torso at the thought of Falcone outing him. Still, he found the strength to protest. "Wayne won't budge."

"Well, you better make him," Falcone said as he let his arms move upward and rest behind his head. "In any way possible." 

Jack said nothing, debating if it was really worth it. Bruce didn't deserve this, for some reason Jack got the feeling that Wayne was the turning point for Gotham, he was young and full of ideas and passion and maybe he truly wanted to see the city to improve, to make life better for everyone, but Jack was selfish. He knew he was. He hated that he valued his skin over everyone else's. So all he did was nod slowly, agreeing to Falcone's proposal. 

He regretted it instantly. 

 "Now, here's the deal. Things aren't as great as they seem," said Falcone "and if it wasn't already obvious we need Wayne's money to stay afloat."

"I just checked in the capo, we're doing alright," Jack said, puzzled. "What's going on?"

"Cobblepot has been causing problems ever since you intervened, the GCPD is as far up my ass as they've ever been, and you're on thin ice. Get Wayne, or get iced. It shouldn't be too hard. Maybe, then, the books will open. You know poor Ignazio, had to take care of something upstate, so I'm out of a Consigliere." As soon as the thick atmosphere appeared, it evaporated with a simple wave of Falcone's hand. "And like, I've always said, you show some promise, I don't want to throw that away just yet." 

Knowing that it was his life or Bruce's livelihood, Jack reluctantly made a choice.

"He wants to come see another one of my shows."

"That's a good kid," Falcone said with a smile that didn't reach the creases of his eyes. "When?"

"If I call him he'll come." 

"Well then, call him up," The mob boss said as he leaned back into his chair, folding his arms comfortably behind his head. "Let me know when it's done."

"Yes, sir." Jack nodded, moving to stand. 

Falcone said nothing as Jack exited the office, and numbly walked back through the grand hallways of the mansion, his thoughts focused solely on the billionaire. The sun had set, and now long shadows had turned into a dusky twilight varnish that coated the blooming flowers in the garden in front of the mansion. Jack quietly accepted his pistol back from the man standing in front of the door. Light from the mansion illuminated his path leading out of the gardens, the warm evening breeze and the soft smell of peonies couldn't draw Jack out of his worry for Bruce. He left through a wrought iron gate that separated Falcone's property from Gotham's streets, and began to walk towards his car. Well, it wasn't really  _his_ car, per se. 

Jack entered the emerald green convertible and threw his gun on the passenger seat next to him, and pressed his forehead to the leather steering wheel, letting his body shake and his shoulders heave. With one trembling hand he reached inside his coat for a box of cigarettes, and tried to steady his hand as he placed one in his mouth. Never had he been overwhelmed by his job, but now the reality seemed too much to bear. Sure he had used Bruce, if only for a few drinks and a new suit, but he didn't really want to  _use_ him, if that made any sense. Wayne was painfully naive when it came to the true inner workings of Gotham. With an old lighter, the cigarette came to life in a cloud of smoke. Jack exhaled, tilting his head upwards to look at the sky. Not to mention there was the question if Wayne really was into men.

He was so different from anyone Jack had ever met, like a shining white knight. Every part of him polished to perfection, gleaming of status and wealth, yet somehow he was compassionate and caring. He was nothing like the people Jack knew, he was genuine. Not to mention, handsome. Jack could see why the tabloids fawned over him and always wanted to see whatever fling he had next. He was awkward, yes, but perhaps he hadn't grown into the Wayne name yet. It was endearing, in his eyes. He couldn't explain it but for the longest time Jack had felt like he was teetering, standing over the edge of a bridge, his toes hanging off of the edge, murky water threatening to swallow him, but Wayne was grounding, and he felt like he maybe, just maybe back away from that edge with his help. 

But he didn't deserve a person like that, he was only in it for himself, he was a snake, only in it for his own gain and he knew it. He didn't understand why Wayne was so interested in him, he was just like any other person in Gotham, desperate, in over his head and a lost cause. Wayne still managed to see the good in him, Jack was sure he lost last of it once he had started to work for Falcone. Wayne truly thought he was worth something, even if it was only through rose colored lenses.

Jack knew he should have hated him, he was everything he wasn't, everything he couldn't be, but he couldn't bring himself to do. Jack pressed his forehead to the steering wheel of the car and sighed, still unsure about his feelings towards Wayne. Sure it was fun to flirt and lead him on but the flirtation was like breathing to him, he didn't think he could ever be with Wayne. He didn't deserve him.

Bruce had called a few times, since the Needle. Jack managed to pick up the first time, a few hellos were exchanged, Bruce apologized about the paparazzi. It seemed like Jack couldn't go down a street in Gotham without seeing a paper with his face on it. Ironically, the police had lost interest in him. He speculated that Wayne had made a call to the Gordon guy that was up for commissioner. Jack also speculated that Bruce thought of him as a string that tied him to Gotham, Jack knew about as much as the average Gothamite about the Wayne family but it wasn't hard to figure out that Bruce didn't really see anything more than the polished glass windows of the Wayne Enterprises tower, and the sprawling green landscape of his family's mansion. He decided to indulge the billionaire, for at least one phone call.

Then he had called when he was on the job for Falcone. 

Jack rested his chin on the car's steering wheel, staring down the long street with it's massive houses and manicured lawns. They were also unsuspecting of Falcone living right down the street, the rot festering underneath their well lit streets, and safe homes. He took a drag from his cigarette.

Bruce had called when he was underneath the docks, with company. Falcone had said he needed help with a rat problem, and Jack knew from experience that it was a snitch. Normally, Falcone would want to have a little chat with the rat before dumping him in the river, but he had a lot on his plate that week, so he handed it over to Jack to take care of. 

He remembered it clearly, perhaps a bit too clearly. Light  streamed through the cracks between old wood boards, letting moonlight stream through to the space below the docks, illuminating a man that was not much older than he was, with straight black hair and light blue eyes that reminded him of Bruce, but that's where the resemblances ended. His build was thinner than Bruce's, and he had a softer jaw and a nose that was crooked, probably from a fight. He looked like the type to snitch. He was tied to one of the wooden poles underneath the dock, his hands pinned uncomfortably behind his back. Jack had done things like this before, but there had always been someone nearby, it had always been planned, but this was much more spontaneous. Usually it would be over within a matter of minutes, a quick shot to the back of the head, tie a few weights to the ankles, send him downstream and try to forget about it before the guilt ate you whole.

But Jack was alone, and things were different, so the man's shocked expression was warranted when he pulled a knife from his pocket instead of a gun. 

Rubbing the hilt nervously he approached the man, pulling a tied handkerchief from his pocket. His heart beating with anticipation, he silently slipped the handkerchief over the man's head, who offered a few short protests that were quickly silenced by the gag. His hand ghosted over the man's neck, feeling his pulse flutter like a trapped bird's. 

With slow realization, the man began to struggle in his position, his eyes darting from Jack, to the knife, to the river not far off from where he was tied up. He had a pleading, desperate look in his eye that made Jack's stomach writhe in disgust. He tried to justify what happened next by telling himself that the man deserved it, he had snitched, and it was the family's code to get rid of any rats. He should knew what was coming the moment he opened his mouth.

"Shh." Jack hummed, trying to calm his nerves and rushing blood rather than the man's as he pressed the knife against his bicep with pressure that was barley there. He licked his lips, trying to hide his elation behind a tight lipped scowl. It all disappeared when he saw drops of blood begin to bead on the man's skin. 

The man tried to speak through the gag to tell Jack to stop, but his struggle only added to his joy. Slowly a small grin appeared on his face as he drew more blood from the man's arm, in neat, tiny little strokes. He could feel it spilling over the blade's sharp edges, running down it's hilt to stain his hand with a warm crimson flow. The sensation made his knees weak out of euphoria. 

He took a step closer to the man, perhaps a bit too close to his face. The knife cut deeper, and Jack could see that the man's pupils had dilated out of fear.  He ran the bloodied knife up the man's arm, and back down his side to rest comfortably against his abdomen, his hands shaking as he did so, shivering in rapture. His breath was labored as he pointed the knife at the man's gut, his eyelids hooded with blood lust. Slowly, ever so slowly he let the blade puncture his skin, his sharp green eyes never leaving it's titanium shine. It entered quietly into the man's stomach, without any resistance. The man writhed under him in pain, then he felt a rush of warmness spill over his hands, and then through his whole body.

Blood now covered his right hand entirely, feverishly hot and ruby in coloring. He let his grip on the knife loosen, letting it sit in the man's stomach, his breath short and fast. Choking out a breathy laugh as he looked the man up and down, his head was tilted away from his abdomen, and his eyes were squeezed tight in pain. Jack clenched his jaw, unnerved by the sight, but for all the wrong reasons.

With his more clean left hand, he grabbed onto the man's jaw, and forced him to turn his neck towards Jack. His blue eyes opened darted around like a caged animal's.

Jack licked his lips before saying. "Now... just watch," He said softly, with a lover's tenderness. Frantically he shifted back and forth on his feet, and unintentionally ran his bloodied right hand through his blonde hair, staining it with a reddish tinge. Again, he wrapped his hand around the knife, still holding tight to the man's jaw, who had stopped groaning in pain and had instead traded his pained moans for a still, petrified silence. 

He then began to pull the knife from it's fleshy sheath, focusing on the blade before trailing his eyes up from the man's blood stained stomach, from his chest and to his panicky eyes. He leaned in closer, breath mingling with the other man's as he continued to tug on the knife, letting a small gasp and laugh escape in pure ecstasy. He let the line between the man and Bruce blur ever so slightly, imagining the billionaire's straight nose and sculpted jaw in place of the man's more worn features. 

The knife was now free, and blood poured from the wound like water from a tap, running down the man's side, dripping on to Jack's scuffed and dirty shoes. He raised the knife again, and let it rest gently on the man's sternum, his vision clouded with a dreamlike, languid haze. 

But before he could press the knife into the man's throat, his phone rang in his pocket.

The blissed-out look disappeared from his face as Jack was unwillfuly launched back into reality.

He angrily threw the knife to the ground and pulled away from the man, his once steady hands now shaking as he came off of his high. He fumbled through his pocket, and tried to grip his phone with his slick hands.

He nearly dropped the phone once he saw the caller ID. In a lapse of his best judgement, he answered Bruce's call. 

"Yeah, hello?" He said, out of breath. He was suddenly aware of how small his voice was.

"Hey-" Bruce began. Jack felt a rush of guilt pour over his shoulders and run down his back. He had only been imagining the billionaire under him moments ago. He wanted to gag and throw the phone into the river and try to forget about Wayne. 

"Hey." He managed to mumble through his embarrassment.

Bruce paused before continuing, and Jack held his breath, looking to the still tied up man who had begun to cry out again, although it was muffled through his gag. Jack gave him a steely glare, and turned his palm over, letting the knife be seen in the dim lighting once more. The man quieted.

"I, um. I'm able to see you play next Friday, if that's alright with you."

"Oh, yeah," Jack said as he began to pace back and forth, he held the phone to his ear with two hands to keep his trembling hands from dropping it. "Just stop by the Elephant Room around 10."

"Isn't that uptown?" Bruce asked, trying to make small talk. 

"Yeah, it is." Jack tucked the bloodied knife back into his pocket. "Maybe don't bring the butler this time? I don't think he cares for me much," He said with a weak chuckle. 

"I'm not sure he would want to come in the first place," Bruce said. "But I hope the feelings aren't mutual?"

"They're not. But I'm sure he'll come around to me," Jack said, forgetting where he was for a moment and slipping into the ease of conversation with Bruce.

"I guess so," Bruce said, Jack could feel his easy smile through the phone. "Are you anywhere downtown? I'm thinking of ditching my last meeting of the evening."

Jack stopped pacing and looked towards the man. "Sorry, but I've got business of my own to take care of," He said, eyes lingering on the crimson stain on the man's clothes.

"Too bad. Goodnight, then."

"Goodnight," Jack said, hanging up before Bruce could get in any last words.

The world went quiet, and seemingly duller once the phone call ended. The blood on his hands with just blood, the man tied to the post was just a man, and the bloodied knife that sat heavily in his pocket was just a knife.

Cautiously, Jack looked towards the man, who didn't dare meet his eyes. He felt shame, and disgust towards himself, for ever projecting Bruce on to his desire. Though, a part of him wanted to pull the knife back out again, and get lost in the heat of the blood and the fantasy of Bruce Wayne once more. He let the dark thoughts fade, letting the last scraps of dignity get the best of him and instead pulled his gun from the inside of his coat pocket.

The man looked almost relived as Jack took aim, and let the bullets fly, landing in his chest with a sick thunk. The man went limp, and Jack quietly tucked the pistol back into his pocket. 

Slowly, Jack opened his eyes and he was back on the quiet street outside of Falcone's home, his knuckles were white, clutching on to the steering wheel, and he ran one hand through his hair, expecting it to come back stained red with that man's blood. His heart rate slowed as the daydream ended, but the guilty feeling still stayed. He then turned the keys to the ignition, and the car jerked to life, humming under the wine colored upholstery seats. He didn't afford the pistol resting in the passenger seat a second glance as he started down the quiet street towards uptown, trying to regain his sense of self before he headed home.

===

Gotham buzzed like a bee hive, on account of the warm weather that had graced the area. It was now May in the city, and it's sweet breezes and slivers of summer made Gotham twitch. The city was humid that night, and Bruce tugged at his collar because of the mugginess as he stepped out of his car and on to the street.

Recently, Bruce had barely heard from Jack. There were a few disjointed telephone calls, where Bruce picked Jack's brain for information about the Gotham he had never got to know, then silence. Jack seemed to have grown distant. Until, out of the blue, Bruce had received a call about a venue that Jack was preforming at. 

 The Elephant Room wasn't much different than Cleopatra's Needle, from Bruce's first observations. Jazz could still be heard pouring from the building out into the street, and the pedestrians who passed by couldn't help but turn their heads to stare into the tinted windows of the club, illuminated only by a bright red neon sign that bared the club's name. However, it seemed to be more crowded than Jack's last venue, as a small line was forming on the street outside of the buildings. Bruce handed over his keys to his car to the valet standing watch with a small thank you. Groups of paparazzi had already began to form, hoping to spot some of Gotham's celebrities out on the town at one of what Bruce was quickly begging to understand was one of the city's hottest jazz clubs. 

The presence of the media in Gotham was unavoidable, and since Skid Row, which felt like years ago even though it had barley been a month, the public has became increasingly more interested in Bruce life, to his dismay. Each magazine and tabloid and newspaper each had their own opinion, Bruce joked to Alfred that he would have to sue for defamation if it got any worse. Accusations of deals with the mobs, prostitution and drug smuggling. Whispers of a secret woman. They couldn’t be more far off. 

Then there was Jack. They seemed to be obsessing over him even more than his brief intoxicated arrest. Was he a mob contact, a forgiven diplomat, a friend or drug lord.  For all of Jack’s presence in the jazz clubs, and the police’s search for him, the press and Gotham still knew nothing about him. Bruce preferred it this way, and he hoped the man could forgive him for all the attention he was getting. 

"Mr. Wayne?" said someone as Bruce began to take his place in line. He sighed, turning around, expecting to see a camera two inches away from his face.

Instead, there stood the bouncer, a clipboard in hand. Bruce could see his name printed neatly at the top of the list, right next to Napier. "You already have a table, are you unaccompanied?" he asked. 

"Oh- Yes," He said with a nod, surprised that Jack had done him the kindness of making a reservation. 

"Right this way." The bouncer said, guiding Bruce towards the entrance of the Elephant Room. Faces turned to look him up and down, bewildered to see Bruce Wayne in their midst. He swore that he saw one woman stealthily capture a photo of him entering the building. 

The inside of the club was dark and all the attention was drawn to the stage, with brilliant lights illuminating performers standing in front of a sparkling curtain of stars. The jazz ensemble on stage had an infectious melody belting from their horns, the club fed off of the stages energy, bobbing their heads and shouting at the performers in glee, their faces were red from the heat of the club. The air was full of a hazy, bacchanal fog that belonged to the burnt-out upper class of Gotham, who seemed to frequent this place. The patrons all sat in posh leather upholstery booths, dressed in all things that sparkled in the dark lighting. Bruce felt very under dressed as he took a seat a table away from a woman bathed in sequins and velvet. 

When the ensemble on stage ended, with the trumpet player throwing his hands up into the air as he finished an animated solo, the crowd erupted into roaring applause and chatter, commenting on the musician's tone and rhythm. Bruce decided that the energy in the Elephant Room was much more wild than that of the Needle, he offered a glance of the room, large groups of people were packed into booths, trying to shout over each and the music at the same time. Obnoxious laughter came from a table that was piled high with wine glasses and champagne flutes. The party was of Dionysian proportions.

"Ladies and gentleman, Jack Napier!" said a man, dressed in a blue suit, clinging to an old fashioned microphone.

As soon as he heard the first syllable of Jack's name, Bruce's eyes went to the curtain concealing the backstage from view. A wave of sound hit the stage as Jack appeared from behind the sparkling curtain, clad in a formal tuxedo, complete with an emerald bow tie that complemented the green shade of his eyes. Bruce didn't know how he afforded all of his different clothing ensembles. He gave a few puckish bows playing off of the crowd, ever confident and ever the artist. 

He took a seat at the piano and the crowd quieted down some, but the quiet hum of anticipation was unmistakable. Bruce was drawn in too, perhaps more so, as he held his breath, watching Jack's hands hover over the piano. 

His fingertips hit the keys, and out came a jazzy melody in a minor key that wrapped the room in a clandestine mantle. Jack took the song at a quick tempo that matched the almost unhinged energy of the crowd, and the people in the audience shouted and crowed at him, couples leaped out of their chairs to cling to one another and shuffle across the jazz club's floor in a drunken foxtrot. 

Bruce leaned forward in his seat subconsciously, his elbow rested on the table as he found himself drawn in once more by Jack's crooning voice, and again he felt the odd sensation that even though the Elephant Room was full of people, he was singing to him. 

" _Bei mir bist du schoen, kiss me and say you'll understand."_

Bruce's attention was stolen from Jack as a man took a seat at his table. He older than Bruce, with gray hair that was slightly thinning and a dark Italian suit to match. He sat a glass of whiskey down on the table, and Bruce could see a golden ring gleam in the dark, embellished with an ornate crest. The man's most striking feature were his eyes, piercing grey and intelligent. Bruce thought he looked familiar. 

"Mind if you join you?" said the man, even if it was redundant, he had already taken his seat without Bruce's word. 

"Yeah, go ahead," Bruce said, shooting a glance up to Jack who was engulfed in his music. 

"It's a good set tonight," The man said, following Bruce's eyes to look up at the stage. "Really something."

Bruce nodded slightly, unnerved by the man's easiness, and unsure of what to make of his presence.

The man across the table took a sip of his drink before extending his arm across the table with an open palm. "Carmine Falcone."

Bruce suddenly made the connection. Ask any Gothamite and they knew who Falcone was. A ruthless killer, a calculating head of the Falcone crime family and the bane of the DA's office. He looked towards the mob boss' hand, not knowing weather to shake it or not. Knowing that if he did, it would just add to the list of things the press would bombard him with. Knowing that if he didn't, Falcone would place a target on his back.

He remembered Falcone being on trial countless of times, and every time the man got off free, no jail time, no fines, not even community service. Murder, racketeering, bribes, anything under the sun in Gotham, he had a part in it, and he had the influence to back it up. Even the Wayne name had limitations, but the fear that came as a connotation with Falcone's family was impenetrable. Bruce placed his hands in his lap as they began to shake. Bruce always had the nagging suspicion that Falcone had something to do with his parents death, partly because he was an easy figure to blame. He wondered how many men and women he had doing his dirty work, perhaps hundreds, even thousands. It wouldn't be unlikely if Joe Chill had worked for Falcone. The thought made him tremor with anger rather than fear.

Falcone pulled back his hand as Bruce's hands closed into fists in his lap and shook his head slightly. "Kids don't shake hands nowadays?" 

"I wouldn't shake hands with you." Bruce spat in a low tone, trying to keep his volume low. He knew that even Falcone wouldn't try and hurt someone like him in a place like this, and it emboldened him. 

"Easy, Wayne," Falcone said as he raised his hands. "You think with your parent's money they would have taught you some manners." 

"But enough chit chat," the other man said, leaning forwards in his seat, his index finger tapping on the table, matching to the beat pouring from the stage. "You've got something I need."

"My money," Bruce said, he wasn't that naive to not know Falcone's intentions.

"No manners, but you still have smarts," He said as an oily grin appeared on his face. 

"It's not going to happen," was all Bruce said, he didn't want any of his family's wealth near Falcone, knowing what it would fund. 

"Too bad, this could have gone so much easier, Mr. Wayne," The mob boss said as he raised an arm into the air, Bruce furrowed his brow as Falcone snapped his fingers.

All of a sudden, the already crowded club became claustrophobic and tense as people stood from the tables, revealing weapons to the crowd. Bruce saw the woman bathed in sequins a table over from pull out a pistol that had been concealed under her dress. Soon enough guns were drawn on every member of the crowd, and Bruce felt his heart drop into his stomach at the sight of them. Distressed waves of fear and confusion, ran through the club, creating a dissonant harmony with Jack's tune, who still managed to play through the sudden ambush, his music faltering only for a beat. Bruce saw Jack's sharp green eyes dart between him and Falcone, he strangely looked unfazed by the gunmen, and shared a knowing stare with the kingpin.  

"How about now?" The mob boss asked, leaning on the table, his gaze was like a silver dagger, pinning Bruce to his seat, who's breath was short and distressed.

He tried to take a full breath in, and stared Falcone down between his eyebrows, still too afraid to truly look the man in the eye. "This will be the one thing you can't bribe your way out of," He said, trying to make himself sound confident.

Falcone tilted his head to the side, Bruce thought he looked like a snake, calculating and in control. "Boys," he said coldly.

Two men, dressed in sharp suits that matched their boss', appeared from behind the glittering curtain and walked slowly towards Jack at the piano, who stopped playing as soon as he saw them appear.

"Luca...C'mon, you know me..." Jack tried to say to one the men, running a hand through his blonde hair, trying to distract Falcone's thugs as he attempted to slide off of the piano bench and make a dash for one of the exits. But before he could disappear, one of the men caught him, and in a show of brutality,  slammed Jack's head against the piano, creating a cluster of atonal notes that cut through the air. A few members in the crowd shrieked as their eyes darted back and forth from the gunmen and the stage. 

The tension in the room only increased when Falcone's thugs began to lead the few remaining patrons out of the club and into a back room.

"Wait!" Bruce cried out as the men pulled Jack limply away from the piano, and pointed a pistol at his gut. Jack's head rolled limply from side to side as he hung like a rag doll between the two.

Bruce looked at Falcone, with a look on his face that begged the mob boss to stop. 

"Now, let's talk business, Mr. Wayne," Falcone said, the same oily grin reappearing. 

"What are you going to do to him?" Bruce asked, somewhat frantic, as he looked from the stage back to the mob boss.

"Think of him as collateral." Falcone strolled across the room nonchalantly, a self satisfied smirk on his lips. "Shame, such a handsome kid. I hate that we had to rough him up like that." 

Bruce only scowled at the comment. 

Jack groaned from his place on the stage, his knees buckling before could regain his balance. There was a cut on his temple, where his head had slammed against one of he edges of the piano, and he could feel blood gushing from it, trailing down his forehead and the side of his face. The wound prickled and was sore, but not in a way that was particularily unpleasant. The presence of the gunmen and the blood rushing from his wound made the adrenaline in Jack's body spike. He fumbled around looking towards the men on each of his sides and impulsively struggled against their grips, cursing as he did so, his green eyes shooting daggers at Falcone.

"Rat." Jack mumbled as he went limp again, blood rolled down the tip of his nose and landed in small droplets on the stage. "Double-crossing rat."

"I need at least twenty five thousand by the end of the week, and every day I don't get the money, Jack here-" Falcone motioned to one of the men holding Jack in place. The thug pulled a small knife from his pocket and brandished it for Bruce and the other patrons of the Elephant Room to see, he then took Jack's hand and pressed the knife to the pale knuckle of his little finger. "loses a finger." 

"I..." Bruce began, watching as the knife pressed against the thin skin of Jack's finger, a small red line appearing under the blade.

Jack had regained some consciousness, but his head still swam and rocked on his neck as he tried to make sense of his situation. He felt the cold metal touch of the knife against his finger, and saw the drops of blood appearing on his finger through the strands of hair that had fallen from their place on his head, and all too familiar with the mob's brutality, he began to struggle weakly against the thug's grips, knowing that they wouldn't hesitate to ruin his chances of getting out of Skid Row and away from Falcone at the snap of their boss' fingers. 

"Please, please." was all he could mumble as he looked between the knife and Bruce. If he couldn’t play, he didn’t know how he would get by. The mob payed well, and more often Jack found himself going to bed with a full stomach, but it came with bloody secrets and hushed jobs in the dark the he didn’t think he would forget. Being on the stage, he felt above Falcone, like he could live without his gang breathing down his neck, with no debts or secrets, just him and the stage. All he could do now was stare blankly at the knife pressing on his finger, and try to keep his hand from trembling.

Bruce felt his chest ache as he watched Jack mumble and beg quietly, the sound seemed to filled the empty room, mixing with the beating of his heart.

"Well?" Falcone asked.

"twenty five thousand, but no more," Bruce said in a hushed and defeated tone.

"Then we have a deal," said Falcone, his smile becoming more genuine as he extended his hand to Bruce once more. 

Bruce bit his tongue as he accepted Falcone's hand, and gave two curt shakes before letting go. 

"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Wayne," said the mob boss. "I'm sure you'll find that I'm a very generous business partner." He stood from his chair, and tucked his hands into his pockets, he began to stroll lazily towards an exit. No doubt would there be a getaway vehicle waiting for him. His men on stage followed suit. 

Bruce's attention was elsewhere though, as when Falcone’s thugs had exited the club, they had thrown Jack to the floor. He stood on his hands and knees, blonde hair tinged pink with blood hiding his face from view. As soon as he heard the door the the club close behind Falcone, He pushed back the chair from his seat to rush to Jack. He stood at the end of the stage while Jack still stood on it, eye level with the other man, who was trying to catch his breath. Bruce placed a gentle hand on Jack's shoulder as he tried to meet his eyes.

“Are you okay?” Bruce said, unaware of the tenderness in his voice. Jack felt his heart twist, he was so caring, it was painful. 

“It’s fine.” Jack lied as he moved to sit back on his heels, not wanting Bruce to become any more involved then he already was, he would just go home, rinse the blood off of his face and move on.  

"You got your head smashed against a piano, Jack," Bruce said. "You're bleeding and you probably have a concussion and after that I just can't let you disappear again-"

"Just quit it." Jack snapped, even though it hurt his head. "I'll get it cleaned up on my own, it'll be fine." He moved to stand, but his vision blurred around him in a reddish tinted swirl due to the lighting of the club. He brought a hand to the cut on his forehead, and he stared at his fingers, wet and stained with his blood. He gave a short sigh, knowing that Bruce was right, and that he would need his help.

Jack swung his legs over the edge of the stage, and Bruce backed up to allow him space to jump down. 

"My car is in the alleyway," He said as he swayed in his spot, threatening to fall over. 

"You're going to fall over and end up with a second concussion if you don't let me help you walk," Bruce said as he extended an arm for Jack.

"It's fine, I'm just bleeding out," Jack said, more light hearted this time. He was silenced as he threw his arm around Bruce's broad shoulders and began to shuffle out of the Elephant Room, leaving a few bewildered spectators on their own.

The narrow alleyway connected to the exit of the Elephant Room was brisk compared the congested heat of the building, and the cool breeze against Jack's heated skin was soothing as Bruce opened the emerald back seat door of Jack's car. No sign of Falcone, or his men. He crawled into wine colored back seat and mumbled that there were some bandages in the glove box before he rested his head on the door of the convertible, his eyes closed and he became more aware of the throbbing in his head as the adrenaline spurred on by Falcone faded. He heard Bruce rifle through his glove box, and the opposite door of the convertible open. Without hurry, he opened his eye. Bruce sat on the seat adjacent to him, just watching him for a moment, bandages and small medical kit in hand. Jack always kept it near by, just in case a job went wrong. He had been lucky enough not to use it, until now. 

"You going to patch me up or what, billionaire boy?" Jack said as he leaned forward in his seat. They were only a few inches apart, now. Blood from the cut fell from the sharp curve of Jack's jaw and landed with a ' _pat, pat, pat_ ' on the leather seats.

Suddenly he found himself leaning forwards, his eyes drifting down to stare at the cupid's bow of Jack's lips. 

Bruce, intimidated by Jack’s closeness stayed silent and shifted his eyes to a small bottle of rubbing alcohol in the medical kit, he opened the bottle and poured the liquid on to the strips of gauze he had in his hand. The blood from the cut on his temple had oozed down Jack's face to his neck and had stained his blonde hair, Bruce gingerly wiped away the blood on his neck, Jack's skin was warm to the touch. Bruce could remember the last time he had seen this much blood, he still felt the need to heave over the side of the car at the sight of it and the memories that the bright crimson color evoked, but he didn't want Jack to think that he was any more maladjusted then he already was. 

The guaze was a pinkish color now as Bruce cleaned Jack's cheek. The other man was uncharacteristically silent as he did so, his green eyes focused on his hands, and all he could hear was his soft breaths in and out. Bruce didn't blame him for zoning out, he was still trying to process what Falcone had just done. The police were obviously the next step, and Gordon would be more than happy to help due to his personal rivalry with Falcone, but Bruce didn't want to put Jack into any more trouble, especially if Falcone still held his convictions. 

Bruce brought the gauze away from Jack's face and licked his lips. He thought about what Jack had said on stage, calling out to one of Falcone's thugs and calling the kingpin himself a rat. He was reminded of Alfred's warning, of Jack's peculiar attitude, the pistol, and he was sure he saw a few bands of cash stuffed under the cushions of Jack's couch after he had dropped him off at home that night. The signs pointed in a direction that Bruce didn't want to accept, that the idealized version of Jack in his head didn't possess. 

"Jack," Bruce began, Jack tilted his head upwards to look at Bruce. He looked very sad, all of a sudden. Bruce took a breath. "Are you working with him?" he asked. 

The other man's eyes darted away from Bruce's face as he looked for a way to escape the conversation, his gut felt like a rock, he knew this was coming. 

"Are you?" asked Bruce again, taking a sharper tone. The mob influenced everything in Gotham, it brought pain, conflict and violence that Bruce suspected that touched even his own family. He didn't think that Jack could participate in that, even if his conscious was a little bit skewed. 

Jack bit his tongue, knowing that Wayne had backed him in to a corner and that he both literally and figuratively had no place to run. "Yes." 

"Okay," Bruce said, trying to play it off as if he didn't care, but he felt himself become sick at the thought. A heavy stone sat in his stomach at the thought of Jack aiding Falcone and his thugs, helping him tear families apart, keeping officers like Gordon away from their homes and tearing up Gotham just for the sake of protection and business, and now roping him into it. Bitterly he took Jack's chin in his hand and turned his head and pressed the gauze to the gash on his temple without warning. 

Jack didn't have time to protest, Wayne had intentionally pressed down in the wound roughly, making him see stars.

"What the hell, Wayne?" He rasped, he pushed the other man away from him with one hand and used the other to hold onto the bandage on his temple. He gave Bruce an exaggerated, betrayed look. 

"Sorry." Bruce hissed, there wasn't an ounce of apology in the word. 

"I don't think you get it," Jack said as he shifted in his seat, and leaned against the car door. He knew that Bruce was rich and sheltered from the real Gotham, everyone in the city did, but he didn't think that he could be this blind. "Falcone runs everything here, he makes deals with the bankers,  he pays off the police so he can pretend to keep neighborhoods like mine safe, he has people in town hall, in the DAs office, and even sitting in the commissioner's desk, every little cappuccino or coffee shop in this goddamn city, the money gets funneled back to him. You're apart it, even if you don't like it, even if it's not voluntary, everyone in Gotham contributes, when you don't make as much money as say.... the Waynes," Jack gestured towards Bruce for emphasis. "You've got to take on a more direct role because if you don't, you don't eat, you don't sleep easy, and you don't even have a chance of getting out without contributing." 

Bruce stayed silent as he listened to Jack's tirade, gripping tight to the bottle of rubbing alcohol, guilt lapping at his ankles. 

"I would give all ten fingers if I didn't have to deal with Falcone ever again, but that's not how it works." He spat as he reached for the medical kit. The thing he hated most of all was how Falcone changed him, so much so that he had started to enjoy the violence that had come with his job."But it's not all bad. I barely ate when I was a kid, y'know that?" Jack rifled around in the kit, trying to find a band aid, not even bothering to look at Wayne. "No butlers, no full pantries, I had to beg and steal and when Falcone came a long it was a blessing, even if he's a fucking scum bag, you know how good it feels to have a full stomach for once in your life?" Jack picked out a pair of band aids and looked towards Bruce, who avoided his gaze. "So I do his dirty work, cause maybe it's not all that bad, and I give him information, because If I don't I'll be outed, or starve, or shot." 

"Outed?" Bruce questioned.

"Yeah, cause I've still got to fucking worry about being queer 'in this day in age' cause it could get me killed." Jack snapped, too caught up in his speech to realized that he had outed himself to Bruce. 

Bruce sat there stunned, appalled at Jack's descriptions and his, possibly willing, blindness. He hated that the city needed the mob to keep itself alive and breathing, it was like a drug that poisoned the veins of Gotham. It was painfully hypocritical what Falcone did, promising protection for a little cash and only making the neighborhoods more violent and poverty stricken then they were before. And even for all of his charity and goodwill towards the GCPD, they wouldn't come near places like the Narrows if you gave them twice as much what Falcone charged for protection. It was a vicious cycle, he now understood, of poverty and desperation and Jack didn't have a chance of escaping.

He couldn't accept it, not for a second. The thought of Falcone made his gut twist, all the lives lost and families once like his torn apart, a mother, father or child killed recklessly. He couldn't sit idly by, donating to superficial charities and putting on sterilized fundraising events for the city. Gotham needed action, but he didn't know who would fulfill the role. 

"Not even the police would help?" He asked, trying to deny what Jack had said, hoping that what he had relayed was an exaggeration.

"You kidding?" Jack scoffed as he put the band aid on to the gash, repeating what he had said to him the last time they had met. "They don't care about us, half the time they get a call from the Narrows they don't even show."

"There's got to be someone, someone other than Falcone that's enforcing the law." He tried to reason.

"Well if there is I haven't heard of them." 

"Maybe there could be," Bruce said with a conviction that made Jack raise his eyebrow. 

"The whole vigilante thing wouldn't stand a chance." 

"Just maybe, I've been thinking about it a little, with your insight I could-" He proposed. 

"No way, you've got to be insane-" Jack said as he pulled away from Bruce's grasp. "What makes you think you could do that? Your money?" 

"Maybe, If I-"

"You'll get yourself killed," Jack said seriously to Bruce before putting his hands in his head. "Maybe if I had just stuck with comedy I wouldn't be in this mess," He said dejectedly as he looked down the alleyway out the street, where a few reporters had begun to assemble, he then ducked his head in response. 

Bruce placed the rubbing alcohol bottle back into the medical kit as his mind wandered to Falcone once more. 

"Falcone's using you to get to me," said Bruce as he used one of the gauze strips to wipe away the drops of blood that had landed on the backseat of Jack's car. "Why?" He knew why. "I mean you tried to kill me, why does he think we have some sort of connection," He said, it was a complete denial of his feelings and he knew it. 

Jack whipped his head towards Bruce. It was almost pathetic how much of a closet case he was. "You are so oblivious," He whispered, massaging the bridge of his nose. "Falcone wanted me to get close to you to get the money, but it seems like he changed his mind." He began to mumble to himself. He didn't understand why Falcone had changed his mind so quickly. The mob boss was a calculating man, always biding his time and waiting for the right opening. He rarely went back on his promises or plans, but tonight seemed to be the exception. 

"Get close? Like-" Jack rolled his eyes at him. "Oh. Right." Bruce finished his sentence, and went quiet for a moment. "So are you, like, strictly into men or?"

"Jesus fucking Christ this is like coming out to my father, yes. Yes I am," Jack said exasperatedly. "Now just drive me home cause I can't do it myself." 

"Fine, okay, I'm like cool with that- or whatever- just like" Bruce opened his passenger side door. "I- Women, I guess," He said awkwardly as he climbed into the front seat. Bruce knew that it was partly a lie. 

"Yeah, sure." Jack threw his keys into Bruce's lap. "Just drive. And be careful, because this car is nice, and don't drive too fast, because the police are looking for it."

"You've got to be kidding me," Bruce said as he pulled out of the alleyway and onto the busy street in front of the Elephant Room, now crowded with cameras and reporters from Gotham's numerous news networks.

"There goes Bruce Wayne!" shouted a reporter, and the color leeched from both Bruce and Jack's face as every eye on the street turned towards them. 

"Drive!" Jack shouted at Bruce as the reporters began to rush towards the car, cameras at the ready. Jack hung out of the back seat, watching the reporters try and keep up with them as they sped down the street and through a yellow light at an intersection. He gave a roguish wave towards the cameras now, small in the distance as they turned a corner towards the Narrows.  

 ===

Jack mumbled a thank you as Bruce helped him through the window of his apartment, and to his couch. His head was throbbing with the cut, and by now he knew he had bled through the band aid. As Bruce went to go get him some ice and new bandages, he picked at the small cut on his pinky finger. The knife had barely grazed his skin, and by now it had stopped bleeding. 

"Can't you just go to a hospital? You've got a concussion," Bruce said as he walked back to Jack, ice and bandages in hand. 

"Costs too much," Jack said as peeled the blood soaked band aid from his forehead. 

"I can pay-" Bruce began as he unwrapped the new band aid. 

"No. You're too involved anyway. Besides, it can't be too bad, I'll be back to normal by the morning." 

"If this is about me giving money to Falcone, I don't like it, but you don't deserve to be hurt if I don't give the money to him," Bruce said as he handed the ice pack over to him. 

"You barely know me," Jack said as he took the ice pack and pressed it to his forehead.

Bruce was quiet as he looked around the apartment, at it's cracking paint and water stained ceiling, the beat up piano and the worn out couch that Jack sat on. It was decrepit but he had still managed to find home in it. 

"What if we just get out of here?" Bruce asked suddenly.

Jack only raised an eyebrow in response. 

"Out of the Narrows, out of Gotham." He gestured to the open window.

"I can't, Falcone-" 

"So what, his reach only goes so far," Bruce said, more confident now. "You can't keep doing- whatever you do for him." Bruce hated to think of the weight on Jack's conscious, by now he had realized that the mob, to his distaste, was an evil that couldn't be snuffed out. He wished that it didn't have to be this way, that people like Jack and those who lived in the Narrows and placed like Skid Row could go to bed safe and with full stomach hidden from Falcone's peering eyes and his gang's violent grasp on the neighborhoods that couldn't afford to keep him away.  

Jack didn't want to admit that he had become enamored with his side job, he bit his tongue as he tried to forget the feelings of joy he got from the violence he took out on those that hadn't paid Falcone's debts. "I just can't leave, he'll notice." Then where would he be. Falcone had become attached to him, he needed Jack there to carry out jobs and keep an eye out on whoever was trying to challenge him. Besides, there was always the ever present threat of being outed if he didn't comply. 

"We'll just get away, until I have to make the first payment," Bruce said, his tangent becoming more frantic. "I just- just please come with me." He reached out towards Jack and knotted his hand in the fabric of his suit jacket. 

Jack didn't want to think about Bruce's proposition but his mind couldn't help but wander. 'Out of Gotham' felt like a far off dream. He furrowed his brow as he looked towards Bruce, unsure of what to say. He could see it, if he really thought about it. A road leading out of the city, wind through his hair, seeing sunlight and breathing fresh air that smelled vaguely of summer and honeysuckle. 

"I swear to god I'll pay extra, too, just so nothing happens," Bruce said, he was desperate for companionship, platonic or otherwise and he had decided to latch on to Jack. He needed to get away, too, he had been reminded of his parents and the cruelty that occupied to the city in the past month more than he had in his entire life and the thought of Jack being involved with Falcone's gang only added to the weight on his shoulders, a crushing feeling that told him he could fix it, he could help the people in most need of it, even if it was impossible. 

Jack bit his lip as he sat up on the couch. "I'll go, just- get me back here before Falcone notices." 

Bruce let go of Jack's suit with a small sigh. "Thank you." 

===

"Master Bruce, is that you?" Alfred called from a darkened hallway in Wayne Manor as Bruce tried to creep silently through the door connected to the kitchens. He had taken a cab from the narrows back to the Elephant Room to drive his car home, and by the time he had pulled into the Manor's driveway he had suspected that Alfred was fast asleep. 

'Damn it' He mouthed to himself, for doubting his butler's keen hearing. He let the door shut behind him. "Yeah, It's me Al," He said cautiously. 

Alfred walked briskly into the kitchen, his lips drawn tight and his face red. Bruce let his shoulders droop, knowing that he was going to get a talking to. "Where were you?" His butler seethed. "You have been gone for four hours, it's two AM, I thought something had happened and I just got off the line with Lieutenant Gordon, reporting you missing for the second time this month, and here you show up. What am I supposed to think?" 

Bruce knew that he had to come clean. Alfred was observant, and he cared so much about Bruce. It felt like a kick to the chest whenever his butler was disappointed in him, and he knew that he could only hide it for so long. "Al, I can explain, for real, this time." He began, taking a deep breath.

He told him everything, from the mugging to sitting down with Jack in the bar, the inebriated parade around Skid Row. The encounter in the apartment, Jack's piano playing, Falcone, everything. Every detail, from the framed photo sitting on Jack's piano, to the color of Jack's car, and the feeling in his heart when Falcone had pressured him into giving him money in exchange for Jack's safety. It felt cathartic, if he was going to be honest with himself. He hated keeping secrets from Alfred. 

"I knew something was going on," Alfred said solemnly as he walked Bruce upstairs towards his bedroom. "Gordon had mentioned Falcone taking an interest in some employees at Wayne tech, and that Napier man, something is just not right, Bruce."

"I don't know what to do," Bruce said as he knotted a hand through his hair. "I can't go to the police, Falcone will hurt him if I do-"

"Why do you insist on protecting him, Bruce? He tried to kill you, just like Joe Chill did to your parents," Alfred said, his volume raised. "If you must make this mistake, I'll let you, but know this. I do not like that man, and I never will, and no matter how much money you intend to spend on him, or how much empathy and understanding you might give him, he will not change." 

"But maybe there's a way, Al," Bruce said, his voice filled with hope. "If I can stop Falcone on my own terms, and keep him out of the Narrows and away from the people there, they wouldn't have to work for him, they'll be safer, so something like what happened to Mom and Dad won't be repeated, Gotham will be safer."

"I don't understand what you're insinuating, sir," Alfred said, tilting his chin upwards, giving Bruce a disapproving glare.

"I'll sound crazy, but, what if there was someone that operated outside of the law, without the restrictions that the police have, there can actually be real change here." 

"Sir, vigilantism is illegal, obviously, but with your presence in Gotham, it could never happen, and who's to say that you really have the ability to?" 

"So I make Bruce Wayne into a personality, like Falcone did to himself. I make him untouchable, so that Gotham puts him on a pedestal, he can't be the vigilante, in anyone's wildest dreams." Bruce had been entertaining these thoughts after retrieving his wallet from Jack's apartment but recently, they had gained more substance. He would often wake up in the night, feverish and disoriented he would scribble ideas or drawings down only to wake up the next morning to gibberish. "Two identities, two lives. I'll train, I'll get stronger so I can fight against Falcone or whoever commits crime and gets off easy. I just... I can't keep watching people get hurt, like Jack, like us, like everyone in the Narrows or..." He trailed off for a moment. "Too many people have died, and even with all the donations to the GCPD, and all the charity balls my family has hosted,  is it any safer?"

"We're changing the city, the right way, sir. Not with fantasy, with real action."

"Would you walk through Crime Alley on your own at night?"

Alfred paused, looking flustered for a moment. "No."

"Then the action isn't working," He said shortly. "Gotham needs a hero, and maybe I can fill that role."

"You're still a child," Alfred said, concern was wrought through his voice. "I can't watch you destroy yourself if you go through with this, Bruce." 

 "I'd be willing to do that if it saved more people," Bruce said with finality.

Alfred set his jaw and gave a stiff nod to Bruce, wishing him goodnight, not willing to reason with him any longer. 

Bruce watched Alfred turn a corner and disappear, the sound of his shoes against the marble floor fading. He was along again, in the dark. Unsure of Falcone, of Jack and a dozen other things. Maybe somehow, he could fix it, for his parent's and his own sake. Bruce began to walk down the hallway, taking a moment to look at the photos of the smiling Wayne family that appeared. Too distraught to sleep just yet, he entered the Manor's library.

It smelt of musk, ink and thyme, like his parents. A dusty record player sat near the entrance, records of Sinatra stacked neatly at it's side. Dark wood floors creaked under his foot as he walked past towering bookcases filled to the brim with novels. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine him and his mother playing hide and seek through the shelves, or him and his father reading a book on a rainy day. He saw his parents shuffle aimlessly across the open floor, holding on to each other like teenagers, Sinatra's voice hanging in the air. He took a seat at a plush chair near a glass window, over looking the expansive green gardens that were frost colored in the moonlight. His parents still were there, but now they looked down at him from a painting up above the window.

Bruce looked at the heart shaped curve of his mother's face, his father's steady hand on his shoulder. They both smiled slightly, an encouraging look that was soothing to Bruce. 

"Hey Mom, Dad." He used to speak to his parents a lot right after they died, he had always taken flowers to their grave, on Sunday. He told them about whatever he had done that week, even the most mundane things. But he had grown out of it. 

"I miss you." He continued. "I'm confused, I don't know where I'm going at this point," He said, speaking more to himself. He placed his hand in his chin and looked out to the gardens. A deer was walking gracefully through the hedges, two small fawns following it closely. 

"I want to help, and I've got a few ideas," He said as he looked back up towards the painting. "It's just... the real Gotham is so much more different from what you taught me." 

Bruce let out a sigh, and looked down at his hand resting on the arm of the chair, at peace with the quietness for now. 

The quietness was shattered with the breaking of glass, as a pane of the window below his parent's painting was broken into a million glittering shards falling from the sky like rain drops. The glass fell to the floor, making a light tinkling sound. Bruce watched, terrified at the sudden noise and movement, as a small black bundle of fur entered the library, disoriented. The bat flapped it's wings as it regained it's balance. He felt his stomach drop, a long held fear of the creature returning, he was stone in his seat as he watched in quiet fright as the creature settled itself of the frame of his parent's painting, wrapping it's wings around itself in a dark cocoon. Now, the bat's eyes stared down at him expectantly. 

He knew what he had to do as he saw the bat spread it's thin paper wings. He couldn't keep running from the things that terrified him, it wasn't what his parents would have wanted for him, and it wasn't want Gotham needed. He knew that he couldn't stand by and be passive towards the violence and the injustice that plagued Gotham with a terrible rot, a festering would that he wanted to clean and mend. Bruce stood from his chair as the bat disappeared through the window it came in from, and he rushed across the hall into his bedroom, to his desk where a small notebook sat. He knew he wasn't hysteric when he had scribbled out those drawings. He flipped through the pages now, recognizing the distorted shapes and jagged edges to belong to the wings of the bat. 

Black wings and Jack's blood haunted Bruce's dreams that night, a crimson and black whirl that stayed in his head would stay in his head long after he had waken up. 

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Jack had barley slept after Falcone's stunt at the Elephant Room, partly out of nerves and partly because the wound on his temple. He had tried to get a hold of Falcone, to cuss him out for what he had almost done to him, and what he was going to do to Bruce, but whenever he tried to call, it went to voicemail. The dial tone's harsh sound mocked him as he threw it from his spot on the couch. It hit the wall above his piano, and landed with a dissonant cluster of notes on to the keys.

All he really wanted at this point was out. He wanted to cut Falcone's oily grin from his mouth and gouge out his knowing grey eyes, too many times had the mob stolen bits and pieces of himself and strewn them across Gotham, worse, he had let them do it willingly. He didn't have the means to piece himself back together, or give anything more to them. He ran a hand through his hair as he sat on the couch, staring at the ivory keys of the piano. All he ever wanted was to just play, but the city had other plans for him.

Again, his mind wandered to the man under the docks. His reaction was two sided, disgust and intrigue, want, almost. There had been another one now. Another man. It was just another small hit he was supposed to make, on the way to a rehearsal for the Elephant Room. It was in the packing district this time, in an old warehouse. The man, he couldn't have been much older than Jack, had mousy brown hair and tawny eyes that blinked back a few tears when Jack pulled the knife coat pocket. He was tied to an old metal chair, a gag and zip ties in true mafia fashion.

He tried to will himself to stop walking towards the other man but the malice inside of him hadn't been entertained in a while, and it won. He eased into the man's lap, his pulse quickening. He cleared his throat, and looked at his watch. Ten minutes before Falcone's guys came to collect the body.

"You know, I'm really sorry about this." He drawled, his apology entirely insincere as he shifted in the man's lap. "What did you do again?"

The man's tawny eyes widened as he tried to say something through the rag in his mouth.

"That's funny." Jack mused as he reached up to tug on the gag, never allowing it to leave the man's lips.

Again he repeated the routine, inching the knife up the man's arm, slowly pushing it into his gut. He could feel the fear and pain roll off of the small man in waves, and somewhere far off he knew that he didn't want this, that he was repulsed by his actions. He snickered softly to himself as he pressed himself closer to the man and rested his chin on his shoulder, he could barley hear the other man breath now, the air coming from his lips was short and shallow, he wouldn’t last much longer.

He offered the halfhearted apology once again as he climbed off of the man's lap. He took one last look at the figure in the chair, he was slumped over, his jacket stained with blood from puncture wounds that went far into his flesh. A trickle of blood ran down his lips, and his eyes were hooded and clouded from blood loss. Jack felt a twinge of guilt, and he pulled his pistol from his coat jacket to finish the job.

The gunshot echoed eerily in the warehouse as the man's head rolled backwards, his eyes shutting.

Two of Falcone's men showed up only minutes later, pulling the back of their Oldsmobile up to the entrance of the warehouse. One inspected the knife wounds from afar, keeping a watchful eye on Jack's stained clothes and fingernails caked with blood.

"I thought Falcone wanted you to just put a bullet in him."

"Well," Jack answered, turning away from the body towards the exit. "He also said to be creative,"

With a doubtful snort the other thug made his way to dispose of the corpse.

Jack couldn't contain his laughter as he sped home that night, still on a high from the murder. He crashed when he got home, and drunk himself into a stupor. Spiraling into a hole of guilt and shame. Falcone had done this to him.

And how could Bruce be so kind to him? So forgiving and steady. He feared him finding out what he really was like. Cruel, unsteady, maybe even a touch manic. More than a touch.

Jack still couldn't tell his real feelings towards Bruce. There was no denying that he was handsome, anyone could see that. In their few interactions, Jack couldn't help bit linger on the high points of his face, the startling blue eyes that seemed so out of place in Gotham, and the delicate cupid's bow of his lips. There he went again. He knotted a hand through his hair. He wasn't deserving of him, not in a million years. Part of him thought if he just denied his attraction to men it would go away. Falcone wouldn't be blackmailing him, he could walk down the street in the Narrows without fearing assault or a slur being flung at him. His breath hitched in his throat at the thought and the corner of his eyes prickled with tears. He didn't feel anything, why was he about to cry?

Across the room, the phone rang from it’s spot on the piano, bringing Jack out of his fantasy and back to the real world. He gingerly held his fingertips against the bandaged wound on his forehead, it’s ache duller now. He began to shamble across the room towards the piano, and he sat down on it's bench to answer the phone call, already expecting Bruce's voice on the other end.

"Bruce," He said, his voice small in his head, pathetic, even.

"Falcone," said Carmine's nasally Gotham drone.

Jack felt his heart come to a stop in his chest, and his stomach lurch.

"What the hell do you want?" He managed to get out between his teeth.

"What're you calling Wayne for?" said the mob boss, sly and smooth as ever.

"Nothing."

"Right." There was a drawn out sigh on Falcone's end of the line. "Listen, that whole ordeal at the Elephants Room, it was a warning."

Jack clenched and unclenched his fist, waiting for Falcone's next words.

"Get your act together." Falcone said, Jack could clearly hear the underlying threat and venom in his voice. "I haven't heard anything in a week, nothing from the capo, nothing from you, and nothing about Wayne. I thought I could put this in your hands, your first real job without me. Get a couple thousand, and all you had to do was get in bed with the man."

Jack looked down at his fist, looking at the small half moon imprints that his fingernails had left in his skin. "If you wanted me to sleep with Wayne then you should have hired a hooker." He spat back at Falcone. Heat collected in his face, never, never had anyone ever talked back to the mob boss, and he never thought he would have been the first. Jack Napier, always at Falcone's hip, never speaking, never seen, now telling him off.

"I'm gonna pretend I didn't hear that." Falcone said in a low tone that made Jack's skin crawl. "I'll spell it out for you, Napier. 'Cause you can't seem to do anything without me holding onto your hand. I'm only keeping you around cause I like you. I've always seen the good in you, seen what you can do, and someday I want to see you in my place."

Jack couldn't imagine himself sitting in Falcone's throne. All Italian wool suits, cigars and cool handshakes. That wasn't him. How long could he keep doing this, before he was caught or killed or worse.

"I'll give you one more chance. Just one more, that's it, and you better take it seriously because I'm not usually such a generous man."

"Fine, but I want out."

"What?" Falcone said, bewildered.

"I'll do it, whatever it is. But that's the last job."

"After all I've given you--" Falcone gave a short sigh. "You've got some real nerve Napier,"

"I'll still keep an eye out, but no more dirty work, no more robberies, all I want to do-- all I ever wanted to do was just play the fucking piano," Jack said, knotting a hand in his hair. What was he doing? This was suicide.

“I’ll let you go," The mob boss began, his tone decisive. Jack should have known better, there was always a catch with Falcone. "but one thing, you still owe me one. I gave you food, clothes, if it weren’t for me you’d be living on the streets, or worse.” Jack hated that fact that he was right.

Falcone had always thought of Jack as his successor, maybe even a son. He had seen him when he was barley sixteen, he had broken into his car and had tried to hot wire it, he was all skin and bones. He remembered seeing the kid, his tongue sticking out between his teeth in concentration, and the look of pure joy when he got it to start on his first try. Falcone was so impressed, or maybe dumbfounded, that he almost let him drive away. 

He beat the kid within two inches of his life, of course, couldn't dare show him any leniency.

When Jack was a bloody pulp he had asked him why did he do it, he still remembered the answer.

"I just want to get out of Gotham." Jack said.  

"I want two favors, then you can leave, then we're set straight."

"Deal."

"Deal." Falcone said, realizing there wasn't much more he could do. 

Jack exhaled, he had only just realized he had been holding his breath.

"I'll call you when the time's right."

"Yeah."

The phone call ended, leaving the apartment silent.

Jack wanted to leap for joy, he leaned his forehead against the cool wood of the piano, pressing the top of his phone to his lips, smiling. Just two favors, then he was gone, just him, and the piano, and maybe even Bruce.

Bruce.

What time was it?

5am, his phone screen read.

Hopefully he was already awake.

"Yeah?" said Bruce through the phone, he had answered within a few seconds.

"Let's get out of here." Jack said breathlessly, it felt so freeing to say that. Knowing that the murders, and the bloody clothing, and hiding from the police would soon be in the past.

"Like right now?"

"Yeah. Meet me at my place?" 

 "I'll be there soon."

"Great." Jack could barley contain his smile.

Setting his phone on the piano, Jack began to shuffle into his bedroom. A battered powder blue suitcase was being used as his bedside stand, he had to shake some dust off of it when he set it on the bed.

Gone, he would be gone. Maybe only for a week, but he'd be out of the city. Haphazardly he threw a few pairs of clothes into the suitcase, he wanted to burst out laughing. He had gotten the best of Falcone. Pressing the bundles of clothes into the suitcase, Jack looked around the room, at the peeling paint, water stains and bullet holes. Maybe once he saved up enough money, he would move out of the Narrows. Gone. All of it would be left behind. 

He closed the suitcase, and stood, taking one last look around. Maybe he would even leave Gotham, for good. New York was only a few hours away. His eyes landed on his bed, on the pillow that sat near the iron pole headboard. 

"Just leave it." He mumbled, but he couldn't bring himself to tear his eyes away from the pistol's hiding place.

He threw the suitcase back on to the bed. 

Jack felt as if a weight had been tied to his wrist as he lifted the pillow. There the pistol sat, shining in the dim lighting. Jack wanted so badly to take the thing and throw it out of his window far into the black Gotham river. But force of habit and fear won over him, he held it in the palms of his hands for a moment, examining the barrel, loaded, the trigger, the hammer. It was still pristine, as well oiled as it had been the day Falcone had gifted him the thing. After placing it into the suitcase, he shamelessly ran his hand under the mattress and retrieved his switchblade from its hiding place. That's when he knew he would never truly leave Gotham, or perhaps it was the other way around. 

Bruce pulled into the street near Jack's apartment as he was climbing down the fire escape.

The billionaire was leaning against an old convertible, it was a pale green color with matching upholstery, a creme racing stripe and even tail fins, it looked like it belonged in a vintage car magazine and not in the back alleys of the Narrows. Bruce, however, looked less put together than the car. He wasn't wearing a smart suit, but rather jeans and a rumpled shirt that looked like it had only been thrown on only minuets ago, he had a dusting of stubble on his chin. He looked like he hadn't slept a wink. Jack found it absurdly attractive. 

"I hope you don't mind-" Bruce began motioning towards the car. "I had to take something that Alfred wouldn't notice disappeared." 

"I don't mind at all." Jack said, not caring so much about the car as he did about Bruce Wayne, standing there, in the dead of morning ready to run away with him. 

"Let's get out of here." Bruce said as he opened his car door. Bruce lifted his hand with some effort to open the door, still he managed to put on a small smile. Jack didn't think someone like Wayne wouldn't have been able to catch much sleep, after what Falcone had done to him. To them. He paused to rub his pinky, a small scab had formed where Falcone's knife had broken his skin. 

"Lets." Jack said. 

Gotham was quiet this early in the morning. It was almost eerie. An early morning sunrise crept over the tops of the skyscrapers, dusting the tops of them in a rose hue. Below, a few tired commuters waited for their bus to come, or their phone to ring, or their coffee to drag them out of their numbed state of mind. They all blurred together as Bruce and Jack rolled through the city, the hum of the engine steady and warm. 

Gotham didn't have it's usual stench this morning, it smelled new, like dew and that fresh smell of summer mixed with salt from Gotham's bay. 

"This really in the least flashy thing you own?" Jack said over the sound of wind as he drummed on the car door of the convertible. 

"Yeah, guess so." Bruce said, staring at the road ahead. 

He blew hair out through his teeth. "Did you sleep at all last night?" Jack asked as they passed over one of the bridges leading out of the city. He looked over his shoulder at the expanse of grey water below him, the city's skyline reflecting in it. 

"About an hour or two." Bruce said. Falcone and his sketches had kept him up last night, and the though of Jack. He realized now that this wasn't the wisest decision. He looked over at Jack, he could see the bandage on the forehead. He still had so many questions, about Falcone and the mob, he was torn, wanting to know what Jack really did for the mob boss and wanting to keep... whatever they had. 

The road ahead was brilliantly colored, a stark contrast to Gotham's industrial palate. Orange and golden hues of morning sunlight now bathed the suburbs that existed outside of Gotham. The houses that lined the streets were manicured and large, nothing like the cramped apartments and dingy two story town houses that the general population lived in. It was only a ten minuet drive from downtown, and the picturesque lawns and picket fences were a world away. 

"Are you still mad about me working with Falcone?" Jack said as he looked towards the billionaire, his eyes had a more hazel hue in the morning's light. 

 "What do you think?" Bruce asked, his voice neutral, not sure about the question himself.

"I swear I haven't hurt anyone." Jack lied. "Just done enough to get by on my own."

Bruce glanced over at Jack, he had his foot on the dash board, he looked effortlessly relaxed. It made his heart ache. He swallowed the feeling.

"Yeah. Why are you so close to him- Falcone?" He asked, tentatively, noticing Jack tense up when he mentioned the mob boss.

"Doesn't matter." Jack said, remembering his first meeting with the mob boss. His jaw still ached from those blows. "Just am."

"What were you like- before Falcone?" Bruce asked, curiously.

"Stupid, and less well fed." Jack breathed. "Now I'm just stupid." 

Bruce let out a breathy laugh that died on his lips. 

"What about piano, where'd you learn to play."

"God, you really want to pick my brain, don't you Wayne?" 

"Then ask me something, won't you?"

Jack set his chin on his hand, leaning forehead, watching the lines on the road ahead disappear under the car. Bruce began to pick up speed now, and the cool breeze made his hair move wildly against the wind. 

"How many rooms do you have in your mansion- is that what you would call it?"

Bruce paused, thinking for a moment. "I have no idea, I don't use half of them."

"Doesn't it get lonely?"

Bruce looked over at Jack, at the sharp features of his face. "Yeah. I'm only twenty something though, there isn't much to be lonely about."

"Sure there is, your parents." Jack said, nonchalantly. 

Bruce stiffened. 

"Mine were killed too, y'know, well, my mother was." Jack said, his voice was distant. Bruce felt a pang of guilt in his chest, his parent's deaths had been front page news for weeks after their deaths, the trial of Joe Chill was publicized until you couldn't turn on the TV without hearing about him. Jack's mother seemed to be lost, along with all the other obituaries at the back of the paper.  

"Did you know your Dad?" 

"No, I don't think it would make much of a difference if I did."  He said, melancholic.  _I think Falcone replaced him._ He thought to himself. 

Bruce paused, the atmosphere in the car was heavy with pain and guilt. 

"But about the piano," Jack began, "There was an old one, sitting on the curb near where I lived as a kid. I think someone meant to throw it away, but they never came around to it. I just started tinkering with it, and it just felt right, y'know?" 

"I had lessons." Bruce remembered, he would sit in one of the many rooms at his home, his mother nearby, his teacher sitting at his side. He remembered fumbling through scales and etudes, and his teacher gradually becoming more frustrated with him. "I was never any good."

"What didn't you have?" Jack said, somewhat cynical.

Bruce didn't answer. "What was your mother like?" He finally asked

Jack sighed. "Absent. But I think don't think she wanted to be." He set his chin on his hand, staring out at the road. "She was always very warm. If I was hungry, she would always let me have the last bit of whatever on her plate."

Bruce smiled softly. 

"Always encouraged the piano thing, even when I decided to drag the thing up two flights of stairs in our apartment." Jack closed his eyes and smiled. "Even when I was practicing when she was trying to fall asleep or when I was supposed to be doing my homework. She would always say that I was the next Glenn Miller, or Tristano."

Bruce remembered a far off thought, his mother smiling quietly as he fumbled through an etude as his teacher tutted to herself near by. 

"What about yours?"

Bruce cleared his throat, willing himself not to be lost in the past, to be here with Jack now. 

"...Right. She was just..." Bruce remembered Martha, with her tender heart and dark hair. He remembered each night how she would come into his room, place a kiss on his forehead and wish him good night. How she sat in the back of the car with him while Alfred drove him to school, how they would go to the theater together, and laugh and laugh until the people in the row in front of them told them to quiet down. "Just wonderful."

 Jack made a small 'hm' noise as he turned away from Bruce. The industrial buildings of Gotham had given way for a indistinguishable blur of suburban bliss. 

 

* * *

 

 Gotham was far behind Bruce and Jack. 

They had been driving for hours now, through Gotham's suburbs, past the small foothills, now into the green countryside of New York. Small, white houses dotted the hilly landscape. They had stopped once or twice, with no direction in mind. Each town they had passed through was more idylllic than the last with their neat cape cod mansions and tiny one street down towns. Jack seemed uncomfortable in the small rural atmosphere, so eventually, Bruce had just started to drive without a direction in mind. It was dusk now, and a cool purple blanket had settled over the green landscape. 

Jack had lamented the whole drive about how he would have packed his piano if he knew how bored he was going to be. 

"What are you going to do once you go back to the city?" Jack asked from the back seat. He had maneuvered himself into the back of the convertible to catch a nap. He was awake now

"What do you mean?" Bruce asked. "Work. Probably. Pay up to Falcone. Wait until you call me at an ungodly hour again." 

"That's not what I meant." 

"Then what do you mean?"

"I already know what's going to happen with you. It's predictable, nothing new." Jack said, his tone light. "Grow up, head the Wayne foundation, settle down, 2.5 kids, and then hand your trust fund down to them." Jack said, waving his hand above his eyes. 

"I didn't know we were talking about my life story here." Bruce said defensively. Bruce clenched his chin. Jack meant the comment lightly, but Bruce hated being told what he was going to grow up to be, when everything could change at a moments notice. "You really think so?" He asked.

"I'm sure of it." Jack said. Bruce couldn't tell if he was joking.

Then, with wild abandon, Bruce jerked the wheel abruptly to the right, and the convertible began to ran through a lush summer field at the side of the road. Jack let loose a ripple of laughter as he held on to the handle of the car's door. Blades of grass and wildflowers flew up into the cool summer air, and the car rolled to a stop, both of them breathing heavily. 

"I can be unpredictable." Bruce said with a 'hmph' 

Jack only laughed until his sides ached and the corners of his eyes hurt and until he could do nothing but lay in the back of the convertible and look up into the air. The sky was a brilliant indigo, with tendrils of orange creeping at the edge of the horizon.

From his spot in the front of the car, Bruce eyed Jack through the rear view mirror. He looked like a different person all together, he lay down there, chin tilted towards the sky,  the corners of his mouth tilted upwards, his smile no longer looked unsettling. Blonde hair surrounded his head like a halo, curling to kiss his temples, it looked indigo in the dying light of the sky. His eyes were closed in pure bliss, and his shirt was buttoned down to reveal the creamy skin of his chest. He looked angelic.

"Quit staring, Wayne," Jack piped up, his head tilting towards Bruce, one eyelid opening, letting the billionaire catch a glimpse of Jack's clear green eyes. Bruce's heart jumped up into his throat as he looked away.

"Come sit with me," He said after a moment, accompanied languid motion of the hand.

Bruce really couldn't resist him.

He climbed into the back seat of the car, and sat next to Jack's head. His hand rested on the seat, fingertips drifting into the other man's hair. (which he thought was impossibly soft.) His heart thumped against the wall of his chest as he looked away from Jack.

"I've never seen so many stars before," Jack remarked as he looked up at the sky. Bright pinpoints decorated the heavens. Never seen through Gotham's smog. 

Bruce swallowed thickly. He didn't know what to say to that. "...I'm sorry." He fought the urge to look down at him.

The other man looked back up at him, Bruce's eyes finally met Jack's. Desire was unmistakable. Bruce felt his stomach lurch, but he couldn't fight it, his head tilted downwards towards Jack's.

Jack propped himself up on one elbow, bringing his face closer to Bruce's, the other snaked around the billionaire's neck to pull him down closer, they shared a breath for an instant before their lips met.

It was remarkably chaste, Jack's lips rested against his with barley there pressure, all the anxiety and discomfort Bruce was holding on to washed away as his eyelids fluttered shut. A cool, jasmine scented breeze passed over them, and a few strands of Jack's hair brushed against his cheek. He smelled like ivory soap and the sun, not a hint of the city on him, not the metallic scent of blood, or the bitterness of the docks, just Jack. Bruce wanted desperately for it to last forever. 

But Jack's lips eventually separated from his, and Bruce's feelings of anxiety returned. Did he like men? He hadn't had the time to think of it. The kiss could be explained away, just their heads bumping together. Nothing. 

Then Jack shifted from his place lying down on the car bench, to sitting on Bruce's lap, his breath warm against Bruce's neck as he began to straddle him, pressing him to the back of the car, hovering above his face, clear green eyes darting across Bruce's face before pressing their lips together again. 

This couldn't be explained away. 

Bruce felt his eyes flutter shut as Jack's hands cupped the sides of his facing, drawing them in closer. He felt his head spinning, maybe from shock, or lack of oxygen or pure joy. Whatever the reason, he found himself setting his hands on Jack's hips to steady himself. Jack's thin fingers ran themselves through the hair at the nape of Bruce's neck as they kissed, making slow circles. 

They stopped for a moment, their eyes closed, Bruce could feel Jack's breath against his cheek, warm and heavy. Jack's thumb traced his bottom lip delicately.

"Please." Bruce found himself mouthing. 

When Jack's lips pressed to his once more, there was more heat behind it. Jack's lips were now flushed and slick, making the kiss a little sloppier than before. Bruce let his jaw open, deepening the kiss. Jack's breath was hot and needy against his own. His thin, pianist's fingers were now tangled in his hair. His grip grew tighter on Jack's hips, his fingernails digging into the denim of his jeans. 

Jack exhaled in a half moan as he pulled away from Bruce, taking his bottom lip between his teeth. The sensation made a jolt of excitement go straight to Bruce's stomach. Jack looked down at him through hooded eyelids, he could barley see the green of his eyes, his pupils were blown wide with desire. 

Bruce took a hand off of Jack's hip to cup his jaw. Jack let go of Bruce's lip.

"Take it off." He said in a hushed tone. 

"Yours or mine?" Jack asked, smirking against Bruce's fingers. Bruce felt his lips burning, waiting for the next chance to touch the other man.

Jack's slender fingers deftly took Bruce's shirt off of his back, and tossed it into the front seat of the car. Bruce fumbled with the last few buttons remaining on Jack's shirt before it fell to the floor of the car. 

There was a slight chill in the air, but Bruce could feel the heat radiating off of Jack's body. He had a lean, toned frame. Truthfully, it looked like he didn't eat well. But Bruce admired him all the same.  Gingerly, Bruce ran his hand up Jack's side, feeling his ribs. His fingertips gently brushed the skin of Jack's collar bones, earning a shiver from the other man. Bruce's fingers touched the soft skin of his neck. He could feel his pulse, fluttering like a bird's.

"Are you going to stare at me all night?" Jack asked, his hands now resting on the waistband of Bruce's pants.

"If you let me." Bruce mumbled, looking from Jack's toned arms to his green eyes and the small, ever present smirk on his face. 

Jack then leaned down, his breath ebbing and flowing against the skin of Bruce's neck. He felt his heart jump into his throat, and he laid back into the seat of the car. Jack pressed a few firm kisses to his neck before peppering his shoulder with them.  Bruce's hand now found itself in Jack's hair, admiring the soft, cupid like curls through half closed eyes. He felt Jack's teeth graze his neck and by surprise he tugged on the hair.

Jack breathed in sharply and Bruce loosened his grip. "Sorry." He said.

Jack's reply was lost to the skin of Bruce's neck. 

Eventually their lips met again, and this time Jack's kiss was more assertive. Jack held on to Bruce's jaw, letting the kiss deepen quickly. His tongue licked Bruce's bottom lip, and his love bites were becoming increasingly hungry. Jack bit once more on Bruce's bottom lip, and he felt the skin break. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth and Bruce pulled Jack's lips from his with a swift tug on his hair. He didn't let go this time, though, and admired Jack's swollen lips and flushed cheeks. There was a small streak of blood -- his blood -- on his lip. 

Bruce swallowed the pit of desire in his throat, and put all shame behind. He let go of Jack's hair to hold firmly to his jaw and wipe away the blood with his own thumb. Jack let out a small, pleased noise. 

"Don't get me wrong," Jack said as he sat back up on Bruce's lap, he ran a hand through his hair. Bruce couldn't say anything, an odd feeling sat in his stomach with the picture of his blood on Jack's lips. "This is nice and all but--"

"Has anyone told you talked too much when you do this?" Bruce said, trying to make a jab at the other man. 

Jack's eyes widened, he looked shocked, which was surely a first. It then melted into that sly expression.

"There's other ways to shut me up." 

"Oh god-- I didn't mean." Bruce said, protesting, knowing what Jack was referencing and not yet confident enough with himself to execute what Jack had suggested. 

"Yeah I know." Jack said as he leaned down to press another kiss against Bruce's lips, it was much more like their first one. Bruce couldn't help but lean in to him as he tried to pull away. 

Jack then rested his head on Bruce's shoulder, draping his arms against his neck. He looked out from the back of the car, into the cool purple field. Bruce smelt like the field, cool and dark and fresh. He found himself feeling very sad all of a sudden, for whatever reason. Maybe guilt. Probably guilt. He still felt as if he was using Bruce. He couldn't shake that feeling. 

Jack leaned back and took his shirt from the floor of the car, he let his lips wander over Bruce's skin a few more times before shrugging the cotton shirt back over his shoulders. Bruce did the same. Jack then rolled off of Bruce's hips to sit, with his head tilted, leaning against the back of the car. He let himself soak in the sight of the luminescent sky.

Bruce watched him out of the corner of his eye, admiring the man with the strange smile and those, piercing, confusing green eyes. Oblivious to whatever would come next. 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
